


Creep

by this_corrosion



Category: South Park
Genre: Ableist Language, Aged Up, Antisemitism, Blow Jobs, Child Murder, Conspiracy, Creepy Animatronics, Dirty Talk, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Frottage, Gen, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Satanism, Self Loathing, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Slurs, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, fatphobic language, idiots to lovers, look it's south park they're all horrible, really old drag race spoilers i guess, sometimes they're soft, south park's adults are all idiots, terrible pizza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28212048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_corrosion/pseuds/this_corrosion
Summary: There's always a lot going on in this podunk Colorado mountain town.Under mounting pressure from school and family, Kyle Broflovski can't seem to figure out who he is, or what the hell it is that he wants.  The key to figuring it out might just be his oldest frenemy Eric Cartman, who is wrapped up in his own dreams of fame and fortune. Meanwhile Stan Marsh and Kenny McCormick are stuck dealing with a global conspiracy that may or may not just be Randy Marsh's overactive imagination.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Eric Cartman, Stan Marsh/Wendy Testaburger
Comments: 67
Kudos: 132





	1. In A Beautiful World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senior year of high school. Kyle wants a nose job, Stan wants to smother his father in his sleep, Kenny wants to uncover the mystery at his part-time job, and Cartman dreams of stardom.
> 
> Butters is just happy to be there.

Puberty made them all hideous. 

Oh, sure, it was a matter of degrees, but the unlovely truth of it was that once the hormones started pumping, pretty much every every boy who had once been in Mr. (President) Garrison’s third grade classroom was transformed into a zitty, greasy, smelly _mess._ The girls fared a little better, mostly because girls were socialised to be less gross, and as such were not subjected to heartfelt talks about how Axe body spray was not a replacement for a shower. 

After the initial confusing, and frankly disgusting, pupal stage, things got a little bit better. By the time their senior year of high school arrived, most people had more or less settled into their bodies. Not that they’d all grown into their looks equally; predictably Clyde grew to be irritatingly handsome, and Token was universally considered to be attractive enough to play a teenager on television. 

As he shoved his books into his locker before first period, Kyle Broflovski reflected that Stan was the luckiest of their little clique - he’d sprouted up to the same height as his father, and after his truly awful acne had gotten itself under control his complexion was sun-kissed and near flawless. Storm-grey eyes, thick dark hair, and an athletic build kept in shape by spots on the football and hockey teams meant that Stanley Marsh had actually turned into a bit of a babe.

If it were a contest (and wasn’t it?) Kenny McCormick would take the second place. The boy had excellent bone structure, even if you could see too much of it. He was wiry, reminding Kyle of Darryl on the Walking Dead, all bones and hard muscle. And Kenny was charming, which meant he had no problem picking people up in spite of the fact that he had teeth that looked like the fence outside of a haunted house.

As for Kyle…

There was a magnetic mirror stuck to the back of Kyle’s locker. He looked at it and sighed before grabbing his AP Physics text and slamming the door closed on his reflection. Kyle had grown even taller than Stan, but with absolutely none of his perfect proportions; Kyle was all gangling limbs, with narrow shoulders and huge feet. As his father had once said, he had his mother’s nose, and his hair remained the same deep red curly disaster it had always been. Basically, his super best friend had morphed into a good looking guy, while he had somehow become a ginger stork. 

At least Cartman was still a fatass, Kyle mused as he stalked down the hall to his classroom. 

He wasn’t normally so looks oriented, but his ego was smarting. On Saturday Stan had invited him and Kenny to come mini golfing because Wendy had a couple of girlfriends from out of town visiting. She had met them at the regional debate competition, “so you know they’re smart, dude,” Stan had said. 

“But are they hot?” Kenny had asked.

“Yeah, dude. Totally hot.”

And they were. As if the implications of ‘two girls meet two guys’ wasn’t nerve-wracking enough, both of the girls had looked like they’d stepped off the cover of a teen fashion magazine. And they _were_ smart, too. The blonde, Alicia, in particular had a razor sharp wit that Kyle could immediately appreciate. They had fallen into an easy banter in spite of the initial awkwardness, and by the time the group had finished eighteen holes of Amazing Plastic Jungle themed golf Kyle was relatively sure that he hadn’t made a total ass of himself.

It was when they were all standing around outside the course trying to figure out where they should eat that Alicia had sidled close to Kyle and asked in a low voice, “Hey, does your friend Kenny have a girlfriend? He’s _adorable._ ”

It was like being back in fourth grade all over again, when Kenny had been ranked cuter than Kyle in spite of constantly having his face covered. He wasn’t even sure he was overly attracted to Alicia, but it still hurt on principle. 

Kyle collapsed into his seat, physics text thumping to the table. His lab partner glanced over at him but didn’t say anything - while he was typically affable, it was absolutely no secret that Kyle had a temper, and if he was in a bad mood it was wiser to just leave him be. Kyle was almost disappointed that he couldn’t just let off steam by getting into an argument, but he supposed it wasn’t the best way to start the day. It was better to just forget about it and move on, as everyone else no doubt already had.

\--

“Thought she was trying to suck my soul out of my body through my dick, dude, swear to god.”

Kyle wrinkled his nose while Stan said, “Jesus, Kenny, don’t SAY that shit, that’s Wendy’s friend. I gotta look her in the eye, you know.”

Kenny grinned widely, revealing more gaps in his teeth, and spread his hands. “Yeah, well, I did too. Brown eye, anyway.”

“Dude!” Kyle exclaimed. “We’re fucking eating here!” 

Kenny shrugged and stole a fry from Stan’s lunch tray, bright blue gaze on Kyle. “The human body is a beautiful and natural thing, dude,” he said. 

“Doesn’t mean I wanna hear you gloat about it,” Kyle snapped back.

Kenny quirked an eyebrow at him. “The fuck do you care?” he asked mildly. “It’s not like you were gonna hit that shit.”

Kyle felt his skin flush hotly. “Not with both of them fawning over YOU, no.”

Kenny leaned back and ran nicotine stained fingers down his chest and belly. “Don’t be a hater, Kyle,” he said, grinning. “More than enough of me to go around. You can have your piece.”

Kyle snorted and kicked Kenny under the table. Kenny just laughed. 

Stan touched Kyle’s shoulder briefly. “I think what Kenny was trying to say is we both know that you’re not like… big into... dating. It’s cool. You’ve got heavy courses, and basketball. Lots of shit.”

Kyle shrugged. He knew that Wendy was at least as busy as he himself was, and she certainly wasn’t having any problems maintaining a relationship, as Stan knew damn well. “I guess,” he conceded grumpily. 

“You just haven’t met the right person yet,” Stan went on. “You need somebody with brains. Drive.”

“Somebody you can fight with,” Kenny added lazily as he stole more of Stan’s fries. 

“Can we talk about literally anything but my love life, please?”

“You’re not supposed to fight with your partner, Kenny,” Stan said. 

“You and Wendy fight all the time,” Kenny pointed out.

“We do not!”

“Dude, you kinda do.”

“Not seriously!”

Kenny shrugged again. “Whatever, I didn’t say it was bad. I’m saying some people need conflict.”

“I don’t need conflict,” Kyle muttered. He was spared any further argument on the subject by a cheerful, “Hey fellas!”

Butters slid into the space beside Kyle at the lunch table. “Boy, am I glad the day is halfway over,” he said. “I sure am tired already.”

“Tweak has like, a gallon sized thermos of coffee,” Kenny offered helpfully. “Why you so tired, Buttercup?”

“Aw, jeez,” Butters said. “I was up awful late helping Eric with his sewing.”

Kyle stopped, his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Sewing?” he asked.

“Well, sure,” Butters said as he unpacked his lunch bag. “Eric sews a lot of stuff.”

“Probably has to take in circus tents to make his fucking pants,” Kyle muttered.

Butters looked at him, eyebrows knitting together. “That’s not very nice,” he said. “Eric’s not THAT fat…”

“You gonna eat that orange?” Kenny interrupted. Butters handed it over wordlessly.

“So what were you guys making?” Stan asked, apparently interested in spite of himself.

Butters knocked his knuckles together. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to say,” he said. “It’s for this TV thing… You know, Netflix has all a’these contest shows and stuff now, and Eric figures he could win one of em.”

Stan frowned, and Kyle studied Butters dubiously. “Cartman’s auditioning for Project Runway or something?” he asked.

Butters opened his mouth to reply but snapped it shut quickly. Kyle started to roll his eyes even before a voice whined behind him, “Kaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhl, are you trying to pry delicate information out of poor Butters?” 

Kyle turned so he could look Cartman in the eye. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t using him as a one-man sweatshop, you fat fuck.”

“Kahl. I’m hurt. Truly.” Cartman stepped over to stand behind Butters, one hand resting lightly on the smaller boy’s shoulder. Butters was quite short, and he was positively dwarfed by Cartman’s bulk. “Butters and I are engaged in a creative endeavour. I would tell you more, but I’m afraid that I don’t want to run the risk of a sneaky Jew rat stealing our brilliant ideas.”

“I wouldn’t steal your stupid ideas,” Kyle snapped. 

“Oh, Kahl. It’s the nature of the Jew to engage in all forms of theft. It’s in your blood.”

Kyle had spent nearly his entire life dealing with Cartman’s incessant anti-Semitism, but it was always a toss up whether or not he was going to react to it. Stan had time to raise his eyebrows, wondering which way it was going to go, and then Kyle was standing up, fists balled at his sides. Stan sighed.

“Shut the fuck up, Cartman, I’m warning you!” he shouted. Kyle loomed over Cartman, a good five inches taller, but Cartman squared right up to him fearlessly. It probably helped that he weighed probably twice what Kyle did. 

“Warning me? For voicing a scientific fact? It’s biology, Kahl!”

“You FLUNKED Biology, fatass!”

Kenny looked at Stan. Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kyle, come on, dude,” he tried. 

“Stanley, I believe your life partner has sand up his vagina,” Cartman opined, buffing his nails on his shirt. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to help dig it out in the privacy of your own home.”

“Stan is not my ‘life partner!’”

“Might be a little less crabby if he was,” Kenny muttered. 

“Dude!” Stan said, reaching over and grabbing Kyle’s wrist. “Seriously. Calm down. What the fuck has gotten into you? Is this because of Saturday?”

“OhHO, he was already flushing your sand-filled vagina?” Cartman asked gleefully.

Kyle half raised a fist and Stan yanked at him again. 

“What happened on Saturday?” Butters asked, eyes wide and damp.

“Couple of girls ditched Kyle to ride the McCormick train,” Stan replied, exasperated.

“Dude!” Kyle shouted as he rounded on his best friend in shock. Stan gave him a pointed look, one that clearly implied Kyle had been the one to push things too far. Kyle made an irritated noise and turned back to the table, grabbing his lunch.

“Fuck this,” he muttered. His face felt flushed and his hands wanted to shake. He stepped over the table bench and stomped off, ignoring Stan’s halfhearted ‘dude’ as he headed out of the cafeteria. 

\--

Avoiding his friends for the rest of the day was simple - Kyle had calculus and computer science in the afternoon, neither of which the other boys were taking. Unsurprisingly, once they had all started high school Kyle had been pushed into as many advanced classes as possible. Initially he had resisted, wanting to stay in the same classes as his friends, but his mother was adamant that Kyle not ‘waste his potential.’ It wasn’t actually all that terrible because they still hung out at lunch and after school, and although he’d be loath to admit it, it gave Kyle some space to see who he was removed from people he’d known since preschool.

By the time he was back at his locker after the final bell, Kyle felt much calmer. He hoisted his backpack, then waved when he saw Kenny heading his way. 

“Hey, look,” he started, but Kenny shook his head.

“Yeah, yeah. You were a dick. You got your mom’s car?” 

Kyle nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then you can assuage your guilty conscience by giving me a ride to work.” 

Kyle snorted, but the truth was that he _would_ feel better about snapping at lunch if he gave Kenny a lift. “Sure. Where’s Stan? Walking with Wendy?”

Kenny smirked. “That’s a stupid question. Come on.”

Sheila Broflovski’s sensible grey sedan was parked in the school lot. Kenny was in the passenger seat and Kyle had just shut the driver’s side door when the rear door opened and Cartman threw himself inside. Kyle scowled at him in the rearview mirror.

“The hell do you think you’re doing, Cartman?” he asked.

“As if I could turn down a ride in the Hebrewmobile,” Cartman replied, already buckling himself in. Kyle sighed, seeing Kenny smirking out of the corner of his eye. 

“You weren’t offered a ride. And don’t call my mom’s car that,” he muttered without much venom. “We gotta drop Kenny off at work first.”

“That place smells like piss,” Cartman observed. Kyle couldn’t even really argue with that; Kenny had a job working in the kitchen at Ping Pong’s Pizza Emporium, which boasted not only heart-burningly greasy pies, but also an arcade and a ‘theatre’ featuring a band of animatronic animals. The ancient carpets did, in fact, smell like piss.

“It’s not as strong in the back,” Kenny said. He was changing into his uniform as they drove, and Kyle glanced over, a little disturbed by exactly how easy it was to count Kenny’s ribs. “Mostly just smells like grease and pepperoni.” 

“Oh, so like Cartman,” Kyle said with a smirk. Kenny snickered.

“AY! I smell like flowers and pure sex appeal! If you can’t tell that, then maybe you should blow your big Jew nose!”

“Fuck off, Cartman, my nose isn’t that big!” Which was a lie, and Kyle knew it. The fact that Kenny did not come to his defense was just more proof, he figured. 

“”Kahl, Russian cosmonauts could see that thing from their secret moon base.”

“The Russians don’t have a moon base!”

“It’s _secret_ , Kahl!”

“You wanna fucking walk, fatass?!” Kyle’s fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. He genuinely hated how quickly he had escalated from annoyance to genuine fury, but he couldn’t help it. 

“Uh,” Kenny said. “It’s the next left.”

“I know where it is,” Kyle muttered, skin hot with embarrassment. He looked carefully before making the turn, waiting for Cartman to make some comment about his cautious driving, but apparently he really didn’t want to walk and had therefore decided that silence was the wisest option. 

He pulled the car up to the curb in front of Ping Pong’s. “Thanks, dude,” Kenny said as he tumbled out of the car. He stood up and gave a grin and a little salute - in his green and orange Ping Pong uniform he looked like a member of the world’s lamest army. He had, Kyle noted, not put his hairnet on. He suspected that Kenny would not even once he was inside, further cementing Kyle’s decision to never eat a Ping Pong pizza as long as he lived. 

As Kenny trotted up to the restaurant, Kyle rubbed his temples and sighed. “Cartman,” he said.

“What?” 

“Get up here.”

“Why?” Intense suspicion. 

“Because I’m not your fucking chauffer. Get out of the back.”

Cartman hesitated, clearly trying to figure out if Kyle was going to drive away the second he was out of the car. He studied the space between the front seats before coming to the realisation there was no way he could crawl over the console. With an irritated sigh he got out of the car and then into the passenger seat as fast as he possibly could. 

Kyle checked his mirrors before pulling out again. Cartman fiddled with the radio, unerringly finding the pop music station out of Denver. “Where’d the hippy drag you to on Saturday?” he asked, voice miraculously free of sarcasm.

“Mini golf,” Kyle replied. 

“You do Jungle or Under the Sea?”

“Jungle.”

Cartmna snorted in disgust. “Under the Sea is better,” he declared. “You can bankshot off of King Triton’s forehead.” Kyle found himself smirking in spite of himself, remembering a dozen or so times he or one of his friends had attempted just that. 

“Yeah, well, Wendy was there with her friends so I don’t think Stan wanted us to get thrown out,” Kyle replied.

“Weak,” Cartman said. He glanced over at Kyle, lips curling up at the edges. “And now you’re pissy because you had to suffer through a round of inferior golf action just so Kenny could get his balls sucked.”

Kyle really didn’t want to agree, but on the other hand it wasn’t an inaccurate summary of events, and Stan had already said as much at lunch in front of Cartman anyway. He sighed. “Whatever,” he muttered. “I don’t care, not really. They weren’t even my type.”

“What do you think put them off?” Cartman asked solicitously. He held up a hand to tick things off on his fingers. “Did you act like a total know-it-all, as usual?”

“No!”

“Did your mom call you to check up on you?”

“No, and even if she had I wouldn’t have answered. Jesus Christ.”

“I assure you Jesus isn’t calling your phone, Kahl. Well. It could really only be one of two things then,” Cartman mused. He quickly tapped his remaining two fingers, grinning like a shark, as he said, “Either you being ginger, or your huge fucking nose.”

“Goddammit, Cartman!” Kyle sincerely considered letting go of the wheel long enough to punch Cartman in the face, but he really didn’t want to crash his mother’s car. “Shut up! I GET it, okay?! I have a big ugly Jew nose and everybody hates it. I KNOW!”

For a wonder, there was silence from the passenger seat. Kyle concentrated on driving, not liking the way his hands were once again clutching the steering wheel hard enough to hurt. It was just Cartman being Cartman, after all, it wasn’t worth getting so worked up over.

“...and you’re ginger,” Cartman added once the silence became unbearable. 

Kyle pulled the car over abruptly, then turned in his seat so he could punch Cartman as hard as possible in the shoulder. “Owwwwwwwww!” Cartman whined immediately.

“You know what, Cartman?” Kyle seethed, putting his hands back on the steering wheel but not making any move to start driving again. “You’re a fat piece of shit, but the fact is that if you really wanted to? You could lose weight. I can’t do shit about any of… _this_ right now, so just lay off unless you want me to knock your fucking teeth out.” 

Cartman watched Kyle warily, clearly expecting to either be thrown out of the car or punched again. When Kyle did neither thing he actually looked a little concerned, if not fully apologetic. 

“You said ‘right now,’” he said slowly. “What, you planning on rearranging your genetics in the future, Kahl?”

Kyle sighed. “Tom’s Rhinoplasty exists, Cartman,” he said tiredly. He took a few slow breaths before he signalled the car and pulled back onto the road. He could feel Cartman staring at him and risked a quick glance over. “What?”

Cartman looked frankly appalled. “You can’t do that,” he said. “You’d look _weird._ ”

“I already look weird, Cartman.” He was too tired and too full of self-pity to really pretend he thought otherwise.

“Kahl. You can’t get a nose job.”

“Not NOW, no. It costs like… five grand.”

“No, even if you had the money, you dumbass. You can’t.” Cartman sounded so sincere that Kyle glanced over at him again. “Your face is proportioned for what you’ve got. If you slapped Stan’s nose on your face your cheekbones would look all out of whack.” Cartman seemed to realise he was being unusually kind, so he added, “Besides, getting rid of that schnozz won’t make you any less Jewish.”

Kyle drove in silence for a while. Eventually he said, “You’re just pissed because it would give you one less thing to rip on me for.”

“Well, obviously, Kahl.”

Kyle chuckled a little. He turned down Cartman’s street and then into his driveway, letting the car idle. “She might not have noticed I was ginger,” he said without thinking. “I had a hat on.”

“Broflovski, you always have a hat on. It’s truly disgusting. You wanna come in and play Cuphead?” 

Kyle shook his head. “Nah, I have a Chem test on Wednesday I need to study for.”

“Nerd.” Cartman gathered up his bag and opened the passenger door. He leaned down. “It’s not THAT ugly, Jew,” he said. “See you in English.” He slammed the door and turned away before Kyle could think to reply.

\--

“McCormick.”

Kenny (sans hairnet or hat, oh the horror) looked up from the piles of pre-shredded cheese he was sorting into plastic containers. “Huh?”

“It’s slow. I’m putting you on bleach duty,” his manager said. Said manager had the misfortune to be named Frank Perv, so for obvious reasons most of the staff just called him Frank. 

Kenny repressed the automatic complaint that wanted to rise to his lips. As far as bosses went, Frank was pretty chill, but bitching about doing what he asked you to do was a good way to get the shitty shifts. Besides which, Kenny liked Frank - he’d been the one to hire him in spite of his family’s dubious reputation as lazy white trash. Ping Pong’s Pizza was a dump, sure, but a steady paycheque made a world of difference when your parents were busy blowing all their own cash on drugs and alcohol. Most of Kenny’s earnings went straight to his sister, Karen. Kenny had been ragged about being poor his whole life, but he was a guy - teenage girls were a whole other beast when it came to social pecking order. Like hell was he going to see her cry just because she couldn't afford the right makeup or whatever.

“Okay, boss.”

Frank grinned. “Thanks, kid. Make sure you get the theatre, there’s a birthday scheduled there tomorrow.”

Kenny nodded, then finished dumping mozzarella into one of the bins before sealing it up and putting it in the walk-in fridge at the back of the kitchen. He walked out of the kitchen and across the hall to the supply room, where the mops and buckets and assorted cleaning supplies were stored. The hallway ran from the rear fire escape past the kitchen on one side and the supply closet and employee bathroom on the other, and ran to a T junction. To the right was the doorway to the concession counter, to the left the curtained doorway to the party theatre. 

Kenny grabbed an old red bucket, filled it with a generous slosh of bleach (there were actual measurements they were supposed to use taped up by the deep sink next to the door, but nobody ever bothered) and then filled the rest of the bucket with water. He strapped on some rubber gloves and grabbed a rag that was possibly older than he was. 

When it wasn’t in use for a party, the theatre’s lights were left off. It wasn’t dark by any means because the rest of the restaurant’s lights were on, but it did mean the stage itself was swathed in shadows. Kenny plopped the bucket down by one of the long picnic style tables and dumped his rag into the bleach mixture before wringing it out and using it to wipe down the table seats and surfaces. He whistled through a gap in his teeth while he worked, not really thinking of much. He was on the second table when he heard something scrape on the stage. 

Kenny looked up and over. For a brief second he was convinced he’d seen a man standing by the edge of the curtains, but after squinting he dismissed it as merely one of the animatronics. 

The Ping Pong Pizza Band was a collection of four animatronic animals: Ping Pong Possum was the singer and the restaurant’s unofficial mascot - his smiling face adorned the kids menus and paper cups used for birthday parties. Guitar was handled by Ronny Racoon, bass by Filbert Fish, and rounding out the band on drums was Bertie Beaver. All four of the animatronics were patchy and balding, their metal skeletons visible in places. They mostly worked, although Filbert in particular would sometimes start twitching as if having a mechanical seizure. The fact that Filbert had a huge toothy smile (and who gave a fish teeth?) somehow made this far more disturbing to watch, and Kenny could remember at least a few kids from his own childhood bursting into tears at the sight. He was also pretty sure Clyde Donovan had pissed himself in terror when an employee stuffed into a Ping Pong costume had hugged him, once upon a time.

Kenny spared the animatronics another glance before he shrugged and went back to scrubbing the tables down.

In the shadow of the curtains, a board creaked softly.


	2. What The Hell Am I Doing Here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan has suspicions, Kyle might have a problem, and Cartman and Butters reveal their grand scheme.

It wouldn’t be unfair to say that Stan Marsh was a little sensitive. Ever since he was a kid, he had been prone to stress and melancholy, which for the most part stemmed from his inability to experience change easily. For Stan, change was a dangerous thing that usually meant his life was about to become more complicated and painful. He much preferred for things to maintain a familiar cycle - an ebb and flow that might shift imperceptibly over time, like the movement of the tides.

It was a pity that his father was chaos incarnate.

Randy Marsh lacked all of the sensitivity of his son, and seemed to thrive on upsetting the status quo of his family as often as he could. Over the years, Stan became convinced that it wasn’t something he set out to do deliberately - his father just had a natural tendency to get swept up in anything that excited him. As such, Stan was used to coming home and finding Randy engrossed in projects of varying degrees of insanity. 

It was a long walk from Wendy Testaburger’s house to Tegridy Farms, but Stan really didn’t mind it - it was a pleasant late afternoon, and as he walked he had time to mull over what he and Wendy had talked about as he’d escorted her home after school. 

“I just hate fighting with him,” he’d said after explaining how he’d caused Kyle to storm off at lunch. Wendy had taken Stan’s hand and squeezed it, reassuring.

“Kyle fights with everyone,” she’d pointed out, then shaken her head at Stan’s expression. “Don’t look that way - you know I love him dearly. But he has a temper, Stan.”

“It was Cartman’s fault,” Stan had deflected. “He always riles him up.”

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but you can’t blame everything on Eric Cartman,” Wendy had said dryly. She'd tossed her hair over her shoulder, and Stan felt his chest constrict a little. She really was incredibly beautiful. “You said he was in a bad mood because Alicia and Elle both thought Kenny was cute. That sounds like a Kyle problem, not a Cartman problem.”

“Cartman made it worse,” Stan had muttered.

“Of course he did, because that’s what those two _do_ \- encourage one another. Cartman’s an asshole, but I can’t say he’s caused most people that much trouble in the past four years. I mean, alright, there was the junior prom incident… and the memorial day explosion… But mostly he’s less psychotic. Unless Kyle is involved.” She’d shaken her head. “He rags on Kyle obsessively, but Kyle does it right back. I’ve seen Kyle yell at a lot of people - yes, Stan, a lot - but I’ve only ever seen him physically attack Cartman.”

Stan had laced his fingers through Wendy’s, marveling as always at how delicate they felt. “Yeah, you’re right. And okay, maybe he was already pissed off before Cartman showed up. But I still feel bad about being kinda mean about it.”

Wendy had stopped walking to look at him fully. She’d smiled, radiant as the sun. “That’s because he’s your super best friend, and you’re a sweet man, Stan Marsh. Do you think it would help if I called Alicia? See if maybe she’d be interested in giving him another chance?”

Stan had shaken his head. “No, he’d be mortified. Besides, I sometimes think…” he trailed off, then sighed. “I’m not really convinced Kyle would know what to DO with a girl. I don’t think he’s had a girlfriend since we were ten, and that doesn’t really count.”

Wendy wrinkled her nose. “Oh, did WE not count?” she’d teased, and Stan laughed. 

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. Look, just text him later. He can’t stay mad at you, Stan. You know that.”

Stan had nodded, because it was true. Super Best Friends couldn’t hold a grudge.

As he started walking up the softly sloping gravel drive leading to the Tegridy farmhouse, Stan was already mentally composing a text to Kyle that would smooth everything over. 

As he clomped up the porch steps and into the house, Stan could hear voices in the kitchen. It was some ridiculous AM radio talk show where people would regularly call in to talk about alien encounters and having sex with Bigfoot. That meant his father was definitely inside, and even more definitely stoned; Randy found Bigfoot erotica the height of comedy when he was high. 

"Hey, Dad," Stan said as he walked to the fridge. He wanted a coke before sitting down to play some video games before dinner. 

"Stan." Randy was sitting at the kitchen table, red-eyed and grinning. "Stan, this guy on the radio says that Satanists are kidnapping kids for the New World Order," he giggled. "He says...he says they hang out in Utah and dress up as animals and have blood orgies in basements and stuff, and they control Hollywood."

Stan shivered lightly. 'Blood orgy' was a term he never liked to hear. "Sounds creepy, Dad."

"It's so stupid" Randy said before immediately engrossing himself in the program again. "People will believe anything." 

Stan made a noncommittal noise and left the kitchen, heading upstairs to his room. Once inside he swept the door closed and dumped his backpack on the floor. He plunked himself down in his desk chair, slouching in a way that only a teenager could manage without severe spinal damage. He put his soda on the desk and pulled his phone out of his pocket. 

**[SM] hey dude**

No reply. Stan sighed and went to Twitter to browse for a while. Eventually his phone pinged.

**[KB] hey dude sorry was giving kenny a ride to work**

Stan smiled a little, happy he wasn't being ignored. 

**[SM] cool. just wanted to say sorry bout lunch that wasn't cool**

**[KB] no it wasn't man not in front of cartman now he thinks i can't get laid**

**[SM] dude we all know you don't get laid it's not a big deal  
not like he is either**

Stan realised after sending the text that he'd made a mistake, but fuck it, Kyle was being a bit of a bitch. 

**[KB] wow nice apology stan**

**[SM] i am sorry but it's not a big deal dude seriously  
i didn't know you were that upset about sat. :(**

**[KB] i'm not upset**

**[SM] bullshit**

Stan waited, and was about to put his phone down and maybe see if he had time to play something brainless on the computer when his phone pinged again. 

**[KB] it's easy for you.  
you're hot dude**

**[SM] dude come on we've been through this like years ago you're not hideous. you just don't give off vibes**

**[KB] wtf vibes**

Stan tapped the side of his phone, chewing his lip. How the hell was he supposed to explain a dozen half formulated thoughts and suspicions? _You yell a lot and you're actually kind of violent and girls don't like that? And sometimes I think you don't really LIKE girls and you might not know it because you're so busy trying to be this perfect version of yourself for your parents?_ Yeah, that would go over well.

**[SM] i mean you never really seem that interested in girls. like that time we went camping and met those chicks from denver? you blew that brunette off cos you were too busy fighting with cartman**

**[KB] he was going to burn down a national park!**

**[SM] i'm just saying that's a bigger problem than your hair or whatever**

Every year before school would begin, Kyle would have an existential crisis about his hair. In ninth grade he had actually shaved it right down, but even Stan had been forced to agree with Cartman that it just made Kyle look _awful_. Since then he had mostly stuck to the tried and true method of hiding it unless he absolutely could not get away with wearing a hat. Stan understood that it was a sore spot for his best friend, one that no number of reassurances seemed to help.

**[KB] whatever**

**[SM] look I really am sorry for embarrassing you ok? i just didn’t want you starting a fistfight in the middle of the cafeteria. again. come on forgive me?**

**[KB] god you’re so needy  
yeah. yeah ok i forgive you**

**[SM] :)**

Stan set his phone down, smiling a little. He shouldn’t worry so much; Kyle was always fine.

\--

Kyle Broflovski was not fine. He’d slept terribly, and woken up feeling like crusty ass. A hot shower helped only a little, and after shaving he found himself just staring at his own reflection for some time, turning his face this way and that, trying to figure out some way to _fix_ it. Why couldn’t he look like Stan, with his beautiful eyes and easy smile? Or Craig. Craig Tucker was tall and broad shouldered, with a strong jawline and eyes that weren’t friendly but sort of… smouldering. Yeah, that was the word. Craig looked like he would have no problem kicking your ass. If you hit Craig, he’d knock you right down. Which was a thought worth some contemplation...

Kyle was startled out of his thoughts by a banging on the bathroom door. “Did you die in there?” Ike shouted on the other side.

“Give me a second!” Kyle shouted back.

He splashed cold water on his face and dried it on a towel before throwing his robe on and opening the door. Ike looked up at him, dark eyes inscrutable as always. “I’m gonna tell mom you were jacking it,” he said. 

“Shut up, Ike,” Kyle said, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t.” His skin felt a little flushed even though this was true. He walked past Ike, reaching over and flicking his ear hard as he did so. Ike might be growing up, but he was always going to be Kyle’s little brother, and that meant it was his god-given duty to give him shit.

In his room, Kyle gave up on the very idea of fashion since there wasn’t a single garment in his possession that was going to make him feel like any less of a gangly nerd. Jeans and an oversized hoodie seemed to be the order of the day. Although he wasn’t feeling particularly hungry, he went downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast anyway - if his mother didn’t see him eat, she’d be after him about his blood sugar. 

He sat at the table with orange juice and toast while his mother fussed at him. “Kyle, you’re not getting sick are you?”

“No, ma, I just didn’t sleep very well.” He flinched as she felt his forehead with the back of her hand anyway before running her fingers through his curls.

“You need to make sure you get your full eight hours, bubala, you’re a growing boy!” 

Kyle considered reminding her that he was eighteen and therefore most likely finished growing, but he decided it wasn’t worth the argument. “Sorry, ma. I was studying.”

Sheila tsked. “My good boy,” she said. “Maybe you’ll make valedictorian.” 

“Great,” Kyle muttered, downing the rest of his juice and getting up. “I gotta go or I’ll be late.” He leaned down to kiss his mother’s cheek, marveling briefly that he had to do so - once upon a time his mother had seemed larger than anyone. “I’ll be late coming home, I have basketball practice.“

“I’ll leave you something in the fridge,” Sheila assured him. She wasn’t entirely a fan of his playing basketball as it was a distraction from academics, but Kyle had managed to stay on the team by insisting that universities favoured ‘well rounded students’ and athletics were an easy way to appear as such. 

Kyle pulled on his battered old boots, his coat, and a green ushanka before heading outside. It wasn’t as bitterly cold as it could be in Colorado, but it wasn’t warm; spring was on its way, but it wasn’t due to arrive just yet. Kyle supposed the sun and crisp air should put him in a better mood, but it didn’t. He felt keyed up and exhausted at the same time. As he headed toward school he found himself trying to remember the last time he’d seen Craig Tucker get in a fight. Probably tenth grade, when some guy had suckerpunched Tweak.

He was idly considering if he could take Craig in a fight as he drifted into AP English and sat at his desk, head propped up with one hand. Craig was stronger, but Kyle thought he had more experience. Not that he wanted to fight the guy - there was no reason to. No, it was just an idle daydream, a thought experiment. 

Kyle felt warmth in his personal space, and then the tickle of breath on his neck. “Wakey wakey, Jewboy.”

Kyle started and nearly knocked his books off his desk, face flushing hotly, as Cartman laughed uproariously. English was the only class the two of them shared. Cartman was _smart_ , but he was incredibly lazy, and English was one of the few classes where being able to bullshit was a skill that could guarantee an A grade. 

“Fuck off, fatass!” Kyle shouted, kicking at Cartman’s shins as he sat down at the desk beside him.

“Somebody’s cranky,” Cartman said smugly. “You do the reading?”

“Of course,” Kyle snorted. They had recently covered Hamlet and were just wrapping up with Oedipus Rex - the teacher had alluded to their next assignment being a comparative essay on the two. “Like a week ago.”

“Kissass.”

Kyle did not reply, as the second bell rang. It didn’t take long for them to wind up arguing again, although this time at least it was for class - the teacher, Ms. Petrie, had asked the students about the nature and function of fate in the books they had read. Really any time she allowed the students to voice their opinions there was at _least_ a good ten minutes where Cartman and Kyle would just attack one another verbally. They usually managed to keep it on the side of appropriate and relevant, and Kyle was convinced that secretly Ms. Petrie was amused by their antics. 

By the time the bell signaling the end of first period rang, Kyle found that he was a bit more awake and actually in a better mood. He and Cartman left the class together, still arguing about whether or not Hamlet was a pussy. 

“What are you doing after school?” Cartman asked as they headed to Kyle’s locker.

“Basketball.”

“Fuckin’ weak, dude.”

“Maybe if you played some sports you wouldn’t be such a fatass, Cartman,” Kyle replied. 

“Oh, yes, I’d rather be built like the Slenderman,” Cartman said, rolling his eyes. “If you stop being lame, hit me up later and we’ll play Borderlands or something.”

Kyle waved noncommittally and Cartman flipped him off before walking away. 

\--

At lunch, while Kyle and Cartman argued endlessly about whether or not a franchise should continue to roll on indefinitely or know when to die a dignified death, Stan found himself looking at Kenny. Kenny wasn't the most talkative human being, but today he seemed quieter than usual. 

"You okay, Kenny?" Stan asked, nudging him gently with his shoulder.

"Yeah. Just thinking. Hey, do you remember when we were kids, Clyde had a birthday at Ping Pong's?"

Cartman, somehow able to keep track of all conversations within earshot even when busy arguing, burst into laughter. "That guy in the suit hugged him and he pissed his pants! Yeah, that was so awesome, you guys."

"Did he piss himself?" Stan asked, starting to grin. "I only remembered him crying."

"Totally pissed himself," Cartman said. "Why you thinking about that, Kenny? You dreaming of being promoted to asshole in a possum suit?"

"No. I was cleaning the theatre last night and I realised those dumb robots must be older than us, that's all."

Stan nodded. "Yeah dude, they're from the eighties or something, they were probably around when my dad was a kid."

"Speaking of your dad, Stan," Cartman said with the gravity of someone about to announce a tragic death, "I noticed he's still on TikTok." 

Stan groaned and put his head in his hands. "I know." Randy had discovered the app months ago, and Stan had assumed he'd grow bored of it and forget it existed, as he tended to do. But no. He continued to post clips of himself playing guitar, and singing and dancing, and just generally being embarrassing. 

"TikTok is fucking lame, of course you're on it, Cartman," Kyle said, sipping his diet soda. 

"It's the pulse of the youth of America, Kahl. If you weren't 65 you'd know that."

"The youth of America and Stan's dad, right," Kyle said as he rolled his eyes. 

"Are you working again tonight, Kenny?" Stan asked. 

"Yeah. It'll be gross, they had a birthday there today. Kids are so fuckin' nasty."

"Weren't YOU the one who pissed in the ball pit?"

"Yeah, and I was a kid, so that's my point."

Kyle looked at Kenny thoughtfully. "Are you guys hiring?"

Kenny grinned, disclosing his gappy teeth. "Considering that the dishwasher just got caught smoking crack before his shift? Maybe. But only maybe. Why?"

Kyle shrugged. "I could use the money."

Stan raised an eyebrow. "Dude, your mom would flip." Which was true - Sheila was adamant that Kyle focus on school, envisioning her eldest son moving on to a prestigious university to study law or medicine. "Besides, you get a good allowance."

"I know," Kyle said, studying his soda can. "I just wanna make some extra cash, I dunno."

Cartman studied Kyle, silent. That wasn't generally a good sign. Stan shook his head and got up from the table. "I'm gonna go say hi to Wendy before class. See you guys later."

\--

Kyle saw a few of the other guys on his basketball team heading away from the gym after school. He waved, frowning in confusion. 

"Practice got canceled," a kid named Jeremy explained. 

"Oh. Why?"

"Dunno. Just a note on the gym door, and nobody can find Coach Ballzack anywhere." 

"Weird." 

The guys continued on, and Kyle stood where he was for a moment, aware that he was suddenly at loose ends. He could go home and get in extra study time for his Chem test, but it wasn't a very appealing option. Kenny was at work, Stan was at Wendy's, and Butters… He wasn't sure. Maybe at Cartman's. 

After a moment's consideration he headed outside and started walking. 

He didn't bother texting, just showed up on Cartman's doorstep. He could hear loud pop music blaring from inside - Kyle was pretty sure it was Lady Gaga. He rang the bell and shifted his bag, frowning when he heard a bit of a commotion inside. 

Butters cracked the door and peered out, smiling only when he saw who it was. "Oh, hi, Kyle!" he chirped.

"Hey, Butters. Uh, basketball got canceled, so I figured I'd come see what you guys were up to."

Butters looked delighted, but then immediately unsure. From inside Cartman's voice rang out, "Butters, whoever it is, tell them to fuck off!"

"It's Kyle, Eric!" 

Silence, aside from Lady Gaga informing them that she wanted their stupid love. Then, "Fuck off, Kahl!"

"What're you guys doing?" Kyle asked suspiciously, trying to peer inside. He towered over Butters, but all he could make out was the foyer. 

Butters looked nervous. "Just, you know, working on a little sewing project…" 

Kyle put his foot in the door. "That's cool," he said casually as he began to force himself inside. 

"Uhm," Butters said, clearly torn. "I dunno if Eric--"

"Butters, you better not be letting that sneaky Jew into my house!"

"Fuck you, fatass!" Kyle shouted back, shoving the door open and slipping inside. Butters stepped back and knocked his knuckles together. He trailed after Kyle as he stomped into the living room.

Kyle stopped dead in his tracks. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't this. 

There was fabric spread over the couch, and more tacked to a dressform. The fabric on the couch was a pastel purple, see-through with an iridescent sheen. It was in the process of being gathered into some sort of ruffled configuration. The fabric tacked to the dressform was neon yellow, and was clearly going to be a dress.

There was a sewing machine on the coffee table, and on one of the end tables was a pile of blonde hair.

Standing in the middle of this garish mess was Eric Cartman, wearing sweatpants and a sleeveless t-shirt emblazoned with "Nap Kween."

Kyle stared at Cartman. 

Cartman stared at Kyle.

Butters knocked his knuckles together.

"Uh," Kyle started, realising that a) this did not LOOK like a nefarious murder scheme, and b) he was the one who'd barged in uninvited. "I. Practice got canceled, so I thought… we could play some games. Uh."

"Wow, Kahl, way to text first," Cartman replied. As usual, he'd regained his equilibrium uncannily fast. He gestured at the living room. "I knew you couldn't keep your big Jew nose out of our grand plans."

"This is what you guys have been working on?" Kyle asked slowly. "Making. Uhm." He looked at the couch again and saw an absolutely massive bra, stuffed with foam or something. 

"It's called drag, Kahl," Cartman said dryly. 

"Oh." Kyle had to turn that one over in his mind. It's not like Cartman and Butters had never dressed as girls before, but Kyle was pretty sure neither had since they were kids. No, he corrected himself, Cartman had in musical theatre, before he'd been kicked out for blackmailing the teacher.

"Can we tell Kyle now, Eric?" Butters asked, sounding excited. Cartman eyeballed Kyle for another moment, then shrugged. 

"Fine."

"Oh, boy!" Butters exclaimed. "Well, see, Netflix had a call for this new contest series? It's a baking show! And a drag show!"

"It's. Baking in drag?" Kyle asked incredulously. He made a face. "That does not sound sanitary."

"First prize is one hundred thousand dollars," Cartman purred. Greed was second only to spite when it came to his motivations.

Kyle looked around again. "Can you bake?" he asked at length. 

"We've been practicin'!" Butters chirped. "Baking, and dancing, and singing… all a'that."

Kyle supposed in some weird way, it all made sense. Nailed It, Sugar Rush, Great British Bake-Off… then Drag Race and all its other country versions…. It seemed just like some TV executive's idea to combine the two. And, well, Cartman loved to perform, and he loved to eat. It all tracked.

He'd just never really thought of Cartman as quite so… gay.

"Cool," Kyle said. He shifted his backpack. "Uh. Can I… help?"

Cartman narrowed his eyes at Kyle, his expression completely stony and unreadable. Kyle stared right back. Apparently Cartman must have seen _something_ in his face, because he waved a hand and sat down in front of the coffee table. 

"Sure," he said casually. "You can help with the coat - I need all that other fabric gathered so it looks puffy. Butters, grab us something to drink and then show Kyle how." 

Butters beamed and scurried off to do as he was told. Kyle carefully took a seat in front of the couch, setting his bag aside. He noticed there was a sketch beside the purple fabric and he studied it - it showed an absolutely huge fluffy coat with a tight, mermaid-style dress underneath. 

"This is cool," Kyle said, feeling extremely weird about giving Cartman a genuine compliment. 

Cartman studied him again before shrugging.

"Thanks."

Then Butters was back, eagerly showing Kyle how to thread the fabric together so that it bunched, essentially making garlands of almost loofah-like puffs, and Kyle had a moment to reflect on just how strange his life was sometimes. 

At least this time Cartman's plan seemed relatively harmless. Might not be a bad idea to keep an eye on him, though. 

Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, who doesn't find Bigfoot erotica hilarious, amirite?  
> Thank you kindly for reading!


	3. I Want A Perfect Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Randy discovers The Truth, Miley Cyrus comes out on top, Kyle is rapidly losing self control, and Stan is more emotionally intelligent than most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things finally gettin spicy up in here, so be aware this isn't entirely SFW.

“I’m going to kick your ass, Broflovski.” The words were aggressive, but the delivery was nasal and nearly deadpan. Kyle swallowed, his throat tight and his mouth dry. He raised his fists, eyes meeting Craig’s furious gaze. 

“Fuck you,” he heard himself say. 

Craig fell on him, swinging, his fists connecting with Kyle’s sides--

No.

Back up.

“I’m going to kick your ass, you stupid fucking Jew.” Nasal, but _amused_ , as if eagerly anticipating Kyle’s response. “You’re a pathetic, cocksucking loser.”

Kyle attacked first. He swung hard, feeling his knuckles meet soft flesh, and soon they were on the ground, swearing and sweating. Their fingers dug into one another’s shoulders as Kyle managed to roll on top of Craig, and Craig’s leg was between his own, and Kyle could only grind against it, achingly hard--

Kyle’s eyes snapped open. He was in his bed, alone of course, pulled suddenly from that state between wakefulness and sleep. He was breathing hard and he tried desperately to do so as quietly as possible, irrationally afraid that his mother would come busting into his room to check on him. His cock was hard inside his boxers, his skin burning up. 

_What is wrong with you?!_ he scolded himself. His hand drifted seemingly of its own volition to slip inside his boxers and slowly rub the head of his cock. _No. You’re not doing this. You are not jerking off to the idea of beating up Craig Tucker._

Good. Wonderful. He was in agreement with himself; he was most certainly not getting off thinking about taunting laughter and rough hands and teeth.

Thinking that, Kyle immediately set about masturbating as if he’d just invented the act, free hand tangling in his own hair and pulling hard as he came. 

He stared at the ceiling for a moment, feeling the cold clarity of post-orgasm seep into his lust fried brain.

“I think I’m fucked up,” he whispered to the dark.

\--

Late night fantasies notwithstanding, the week passed relatively uneventfully. The Chem test came and went, Kyle scoring 94% which he figured was pretty good but still left room for improvement. Kenny informed him that the dishwasher at Ping Pong's had not in fact been fired, but that he’d still put in a good word for him with his boss if Kyle was serious about wanting a job. 

He wound up at Cartman’s again on Thursday, and helped Butters sew some more of the monstrous coat they were making. It was strange, but on the other hand it was also sort of interesting. Cartman insisted they watch Drag Race as they worked, for research. Kyle had never seen it, and to his surprise found himself enjoying the drama.

The only real shadow on the week was the news that Coach Ballzack’s daughter had gone missing - basketball practice was suspended indefinitely until a replacement coach could be wrangled. Ballzack was devastated and, according to Kyle’s mother, was convinced that his ex wife was somehow responsible. Kyle hoped they found the little girl, in the distracted way one hopes for the best when it concerns people they don’t really know.

Life rolled on.

\--

Stan was not expecting anyone to still be up when he came home late Sunday night. He and the boys had been hanging out at Kenny's, something they only ever did if his parents weren't home; Stan supposed the McCormicks were nice enough people, but the sound of them fighting was a surefire way to kill a buzz. They'd stayed in Kenny's room, which while filthy was still less depressingly so than the rest of the house, smoking weed and watching some awful movie by a guy named Neil Breen.

Karen had joined them when they'd ordered pizza, and Stan had been surprised to realise that she was fifteen now. It seemed like she'd been a tiny, scared little kid just yesterday. It was weird, and made Stan frightened by the enormity and inevitability of time. 

Kenny had punched him in the shoulder as Stan had stared after her when she'd left. "Don't be checking out my sister, dude."

"I'm not! I was just… Jesus, we're really gonna be adults soon."

Kyle had groaned and laid back horizontally on Kenny's bed, his feet still on the floor. He had pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Stan, please, not now. I'm fucking stoned and I don't want to contemplate the future."

"Isn't yours already planned out for you?" Cartman had asked from his place on the floor. "Gonna get into the best schools and become a lawyer or a doctor or an investment banker, some cozy Jew-approved career."

"Shut up, fatass," Kyle had hissed. "Just… shut up."

For a wonder, Cartman had.

Introspection had been put on hold. It was close to eleven when Kyle - always the one to get the least fucked up - deemed himself good to drive. When he'd dropped Stan off, Stan had put a hand on his shoulder. 

"Hey. You okay?"

"Gaaaaaay," Cartman called from the back seat. Kyle frowned. 

"I'm fine. Look, I gotta get home before midnight or my mom'll kill me." 

Stan had climbed out of the car and watched Kyle drive off, troubled. Once, long ago, Butters of all people had accused him of being self absorbed, and that had stuck with him because he knew it could be true. He tried very hard not to be, to be there for his friends. 

Sometimes he just wasn't sure how to be.

Stan closed the front door behind him and was surprised to see that the kitchen light was on. He crept over and peeked through the doorway, surprised to see his father seated at the table, scrolling on his phone, looking concerned. 

"Hey, Dad," Stan said softly.

Randy looked up from his phone. "Stan," he said, eyes too wide. He gestured for his son to join him. Feeling trepidation, Stan came and stood beside him. Randy looked up and put a hand on Stan's forearm.

"Stan, I think something really bad is going on here," he confided. 

Stan groaned inwardly. "What do you mean?"

"The Alien Satanist Illuminati." 

Stan blinked, momentarily thrown. He wondered if maybe he weren't still stoned. "What?"

Randy let go of Stan's arm and turned to his phone. With dismay, Stan realised his father was opening TikTok. "I was looking around and I started seeing all these videos," he explained. "Look. Look."

On Randy's phone, a frightened looking girl who was maybe fourteen was standing in front of what looked like a restaurant. "This is where they took the kids from," she whisper-yelled. "They like… dug a tunnel under it? And stole the kids and sacrificed them to Moloch. Look!" She went and gestured at an industrial garbage bin. "They found their clothes in there!"

Stan frowned. "Dad, she's not showing _anything_ , she's just talking nonsense."

"There's more!" Randy said, searching on his phone. "Hundreds. People seeing men in black robes whose eyes turn into reptile eyes, stealing kids and doing god knows what for the world's elite…"

"Dad, didn't you JUST make fun of this shit last week?" Stan asked, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"This is different. Stan, Stan, look…" 

Against his better judgment, Stan looked. A teenager onscreen was standing in front of a Ping Pong's Pizza, earnestly explaining how the logo was secretly made up of occult symbols. 

"That restaurant chain is all over the country," Randy whispered. "All over. There's one here. And now that little girl has gone missing…" He pinned Stan with his horrified stare. "They're here."

Stan turned away. "I gotta get some sleep. Goodnight, Dad. Don't stay up all night watching lizard people videos."

Christ, but his father was gullible. 

\--

Another Tuesday, another canceled basketball practice. Kyle caught up with Cartman right after the final bell.

"Jew," Cartman said by way of greeting. 

"Fatass." He leaned against the locker beside Cartman's. "So. Still no sign of the coach. You and Butters hanging out?" 

Cartman gave Kyle a speculative look. "You trying to invite yourself over?" he asked, amused. 

Kyle shrugged. "Yeah," he admitted. "I don't wanna go home."

Cartman snorted. "Can't blame you. Yeah, sure. Butters isn't coming though, he's grounded."

"What the fuck for?"

"Who cares?" Cartman slammed his locker, not out of anger but because that's just how he moved through life.

"I got my mom's car."

Cartman grinned. "The Hebrewmobile."

"I told you not to call it that," Kyle warned. 

"The Jewwagon? The Kosher Cab? The--OWwwww! Kahl!" This last was whined after Kyle punched him in the shoulder. "Fuck you!"

Kyle grinned. Punching Cartman really was satisfying. "Come on."

Although it was more common for the boys to hang out as a unit, it wasn't unusual for Cartman and Kyle to wind up on their own. It had actually become more common in the past few years, what with Stan making time for Wendy, and Kenny working and chasing anything he decided he wanted to sleep with. They had known one another since preschool, and although they would deny being friends, the fact was that they weren't precisely enemies. 

Inside Cartman's house, they took up their places on the couch. Kyle gathered the purple coat fabric into his lap without being asked, ready to keep hand-sewing. Cartman looked at him, eyes somber. "Kahl, I need your opinion. Ariana Grande or Miley Cyrus?"

Kyle stared at Cartman. "Uh. I dunno, they're both cute, I guess."

Cartman gave Kyle a look that explicitly telegraphed that he thought Kyle was, in fact, the village idiot. "Yes, because we're _clearly_ both extremely interested in fucking female pop stars. Kahl. I mean I need a lip sync for my audition tape."

Kyle stared again, trying to process what he should be getting offended at. Unable to figure out how to untangle anything without delving into unsettling territory, he instead asked, "Which songs?"

"Alexa, play Greedy by Ariana Grande," Cartman instructed the smart device. 

"Okay."

He hopped to his feet to sing along, utterly shameless as always. Partway through, Cartman then told the device to switch to Midnight Sky by Miley Cyrus. The tempo changed, but Cartman's enthusiasm did not.

Sitting on the couch, holding pastel purple organza, Kyle pondered how the hell things had come to this. Not watching Cartman gyrate around - no, that had been normal since childhood - but genuinely considering his feedback on it.

"I like Miley," he decided. "But your choreo fucking sucks."

"The fuck would you know, Jews don't have any rhythm."

"Fuck you, fatass, I have rhythm!"

Cartman rolled his eyes and peeled his sweatshirt off, moving to grab a measuring tape. Kyle found himself watching as Cartman tried wrapping it around his waist. Kyle set the fabric in his lap aside, and then he was up, taking the tape in his hands.

"Let me, you can't see shit," he said. Cartman looked as if he were about to protest for a moment.

"Tighter," he said instead. "I'll be cinched." 

Kyle tugged the tape harder, watching it cut into Cartman's soft flesh. His skin was very smooth. Kyle's mouth felt dry and he swallowed. "There?" he asked.

"Yeah."

Kyle noted the number on the tape before letting it go. His face was too hot. "God, you really are a fatass," he muttered. 

"Thank you for that stunning observation, Kahl," Cartman replied. "If we're going to play the body shaming game, shall I inquire if your mother knows that you might take a part-time job so you can get a fucking nose job? Or are you just going to save up birthday and Hanukkah cash for it?"

Kyle stared at Cartman, stunned into silence. "I already have been," he admitted faintly. He could feel hurt curdling into rage but it felt far away and unimportant. 

Cartman tsked and snatched his tape measure back. "That's fucking pathetic, Kahl." He didn't sound as if he pitied him one bit, he sounded _amused_. "Even for a ginger Jew nerd like you."

"Fuck you!" Kyle shouted as he launched himself at Cartman, sending them both crashing to the floor. He hit at Cartman's shoulders, not quite punching, grappling as Cartman tried to roll on top of him. "Fuck you, shut the fuck up about me being ginger!"

"Oh, the daywalker's mad at me!" Cartman exclaimed, delighted. He dug the nails of one hand into Kyle's forearm. His other hand reached up to rip Kyle's hat off. "Look at this shit! You mad, you Jersey fuck? I'll kick your ass!" 

"Fucking try it!" Kyle shouted. He put his stinging forearm across Cartman's throat, his legs on either side of Cartman's thick thigh, pressing his body close. 

Oh, he was so hard. He wasn't even sure when it happened, but he was, and Cartman's hand was in his hair, tugging, and Kyle moaned helplessly. The sound startled him, and he pulled away, scooting back across the carpet until he hit the couch.

He sat there, chest heaving, eyes wide. Cartman sat up, flushed, but not looking terribly upset.

Silence spun out between them, pregnant and oppressive. 

"I should go," Kyle heard himself say. 

Cartman looked at him. His eyes were a soft brown, like syrup. He licked his lips once, quickly, as if nervous. With exaggerated slowness, he shrugged. “Figures you’d fuck off before you had to do any sewing.”

Kyle sat where he was, mind racing. He wanted to run. Grab his bag and flee out into the chill Colorado air, see if that would clear his mind and reset it to normal. But if he did that… was that admitting defeat? Acknowledging what had just happened? Cartman didn’t seem especially bothered, as if this was just another one of their fights. They fought all the _time._ If he left, would HE be the one making it weird?

Kyle exhaled very slowly. “I just thought. I know what a sore loser you are.”

Cartman snorted and moved to grab his sweatshirt. Kyle found his eyes tracking the curves of his shoulders as he turned - they were broad, he realised. Strong looking. Very much unlike his own. “You didn’t win,” Cartman said as he tugged his shirt on. “I’m gonna get a drink.”

“Get me one too,” Kyle found his mouth saying. “Least you can pay me for helping you with all of this shit.”

“Always looking to get paid,” Cartman said, shaking his head as he got up and headed for the kitchen. “Typical Jew.”

With Cartman gone, Kyle got shakily to his feet and all but collapsed onto the couch. He pulled the organza back onto his lap quickly, aware that his erection apparently still hadn’t got the notice that this was _not the time._ He ran a hand through his hair and deliberately invoked terrible thoughts: surgery, zombies, terrorists, Mr. Garrison. By the time Cartman returned he felt he looked more or less normal.

Cartman handed him his soda - regular, because Cartman always insisted he wasn’t about to keep diet sodas around for Kyle’s “diabetic ass” - and sat on the floor. He switched the music off and put Drag Race back on before concentrating on cutting out pattern pieces.

Kyle resumed hand-sewing organza into garlands. It was almost done - the next step was to actually put the pieces together to make the coat. That part seemed difficult, but he assumed Cartman had done enough research to know how; if Cartman were truly invested in something, it was a little frightening how much work he was willing to put in.

They worked in silence, watching the television in lieu of speaking. Eventually Cartman snorted. “Michelle Visage is such a fucking bitch,” he said.

“No, she isn’t,” Kyle replied at once. “She’s honest. She’s giving constructive criticism.”

Cartman snickered. “Of course you’d say that,” he said. “She’s basically a slutty version of your mom, dude.”

Kyle gaped at Cartman, looked at the screen, and then burst into semi-hysterical laughter. “Fuck off!” he managed to choke out. “Is. Wait, is she--?”

“A Jersey Jew? Yes.”

Somehow this came off as less insulting and more hilarious than anything else and Kyle found himself laughing until tears streamed down his cheeks. At one point in her life, after all, Sheila _had_ been S-WOW Tittybang. More than that the laughter worked as a release valve, a safe way for all of Kyle’s nervous energy to express itself. Eventually he tapered off into hiccuping giggles. 

“She’s still giving constructive criticism,” Kyle said. “You’re just pissy because you like Alexis.”

Cartman snorted. “She’s not my favourite.”

Kyle looked at Cartman with genuine curiosity. “Well, who is?”

“This season?” He shrugged and looked at his fabric. “Sasha Velour.”

Kyle’s eyebrows knit together momentarily. That was not the answer he’d been expecting. “Huh,” he said. He worked quietly for a bit longer, aware he was building up to asking something. “Cartman?”

“What is it, Jewboy?”

“How long have you been watching this show?”

Another shrug. “Since I was fifteen. It’s lucky all the old seasons are on Netflix, and some of All-Stars.” 

“So. When did you… I mean.” Kyle frowned deeply at the fabric in his lap. If he didn’t look up, maybe he could just blurt it out. _Dude, are you gay? Is this gay? This is gay, right?_ Instead he cleared his throat. “When did you decide to do this?”

Cartman looked at Kyle like he was simple. “When I saw the call for auditions for the Netflix thing. It’s _one hundred thousand dollars_ , Kahl.”

“Oh.”

By the end of the episode, Kyle felt almost as if nothing strange had happened. Well, nothing stranger than usual, at any rate. The two of them bickered, but also expressed disappointment that Eureka was eliminated, and absolutely nothing else passed between them.

Walking to his car after finishing both the show and the organza garland, Kyle had put the entire incident out of his mind. Completely. Definitely.

\--

“Wendy?”

“Hm?” She looked up from her textbook, eyebrows delicately raised. A study date with Wendy Testaburger meant _actual studying_ had to take place before any groping was to even be considered, which meant that even though Stan and she were in her bedroom her mind had been focused entirely on developmental psychology. 

Stan was fiddling with his pen, frowning at it as if it were perhaps the key to the riddles of the universe. She felt a brief but strong urge to reach over and smooth out the wrinkle between his brows. “Yes, Stan?” she prompted. 

“How do you help someone if they don’t know something is wrong?”

Wendy studied Stan carefully and set her own work aside. They were sitting on the floor with their backs against her bed. She put a hand on his knee. “Well,” she said slowly, “I’m not sure. I think if something really _is_ wrong, everybody knows on some level. They just don’t always consciously acknowledge it.”

“Yeah, that,” Stan agreed. He looked up and met her eyes. “Like THEY don’t seem to realise it even if it’s really, really obvious to everybody else. How do you bring that up?”

“I guess you have to first decide if you should bring it up at all,” Wendy said carefully. “Like if they’re hurting themselves, that seems like a good reason to. You know, if they maybe drink too much or something?” She watched his eyes very carefully. Stan just looked a little confused by this, so she decided to ask, “Are you talking about your dad?”

Stan half laughed and shook his head. “What? No, no. My dad’s the same as always. I mean, you know how he gets obsessed with something every few weeks, but right now he’s just really into dumb conspiracy shit on YouTube and TikTok. It’s nothing dangerous. No, no. I just…” He sighed and tipped his head back. 

“You’re worried about Kyle,” Wendy finished for him.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” 

Stan chewed his lip lightly before shrugging and looking at his girlfriend again. “Okay, this is going to sound really stupid, and I bet you’re going to tell me it means nothing, but hear me out, okay?”

She nodded. “I promise not to talk until you’ve laid all your thoughts out.”

“Thanks, Wendy. Okay. So.” He went quiet again for a moment, thinking. “He’s not talking about college. At all. I know he filled out his applications back in October, but the rest of us are, you know, we either got it done just a little while ago or are doing it now. We were hanging out at Kenny’s and he told me he didn’t wanna talk about the future.” Stan paused, unsure how to explain why that felt significant. “He’s looking for a job, I think. Not seriously yet, but he’s asked Kenny about it. His mom would fucking murder him if he up and decided to start working while he was still in high school, she barely let him play basketball because she wants him to keep his GPA like, perfect.” 

Wendy waited, knowing there was more. With Stan, there were always a lot of emotions to wade through, a lot of thoughts that were maybe not fully formed but nonetheless insightful. 

“He asked me the other day if I thought he should dye his hair. And before that… The whole thing with the mini golf, I talked to him, and he said I didn’t get it, because I’m ‘hot.’ And I keep…”

Stan sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face before he put it overtop of Wendy’s. “Wendy, I’m pretty sure Kyle’s gay.”

Wendy’s eyebrows lifted up under her heavy fringe. “That’s a bit of a leap from ‘Kyle’s blowing off school and hates his hair,’ Stan.” 

“I know, I know, but listen. It’s not… okay, I’m not putting this well, I’m not going like…”

“Linearly.” 

“Yeah. I’ve known Kyle like, my whole life. Kyle and Kenny and Cartman. I _know_ when they’re not happy. Like when Kenny’s dad crashed their truck into that giant statue of the seagull with tits? He said it was funny, but he was fucking wrecked over it because his dad was supposed to get a new one and he was hoping he could take the old one. If he had a truck, he could at least take Karen out of the house if it got real bad.” Stan chewed at his lower lip again, hand squeezing Wendy’s a little tighter.

“He’s not happy. I know he isn’t happy. And it’s weird because it’s not like he isn’t doing shit he likes - he has basketball, or he did, and he actually LIKES learning and studying, same as you. We still hang out and play video games and it’s not like he’s, you know, he’s not like me, he doesn’t get all quiet and mopey. I’ve been thinking about it since we talked about it the other week, and I realised, you’re right, he fights with everybody. I think you understand that it’s just because he’s passionate, like you are, and he just cares a lot about things. But he _really_ fights with Cartman, just like you said. Like over the dumbest shit, too. If you guys got started on… I dunno, representation in cinema or something, and you disagreed, you’d both wind up yelling at each other but he wouldn’t tackle you and hold you down.”

Wendy twirled a strand of hair around one finger of her free hand. “I guess when you put it that way, it IS sort of weird,” she said slowly. “They’ve just always been like that, you just never really think about it. It’s just that weird _thing_ they have with one another.”

“Cartman’s the only person he touches,” Stan said, sounding both confused and a little helpless. “I mean, he’ll hug me, and Ike, but Ike’s his brother and I may as well be. And maybe it’s not a big deal, but I feel like… we graduate this year. And I don’t know what’s going to happen to any of us, except Kyle. Kyle’s going to wind up going to some hardcore university and he’s going to get a bunch of degrees in whatever field his parents think is acceptable, and he’ll go and become whatever they told him he should be, and I really don’t think that plan allows for any time for Kyle to just be _Kyle._ Jesus, Wendy, can you imagine Mrs. Broflovski’s reaction if Kyle told her he wanted to take a year off to go blow dudes in dance clubs?”

“I’m not sure that’s what Kyle would choose to do with a gap year,” Wendy replied dryly. She took both of Stan’s hands in hers and squeezed tightly. “But I get what you’re saying.”

“I’m just really worried that the only time Kyle gets to feel close to anybody is when he’s trying to choke the shit out of Cartman,” he sighed. 

“Not really fair to Eric, either,” Wendy said quietly. Stan looked at her sharply and she shrugged. “He’s obsessed with him, Stan. You ever think maybe it’s for some of the same reasons?”

Stan nodded miserably. “Kenny joked that they’re going to either kill each other or get married someday,” he said miserably. “I told him not everyone is as fucked up as our parents.”

Wendy pulled Stan close, hugging him and running a soothing hand through his hair. “We are,” she said quietly. “But I like to think we’re smart enough to figure out better ways to deal with it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They sat there, silent, for quite some time.


	4. I Want You To Notice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There may be sinister goings-on at Kenny's part-time job, and Randy Marsh might be the only one who can save the day!
> 
> Meanwhile, Kyle hits his boiling point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hi there, smut. How you doin?

“I heard it’s someone’s VERY SPECIAL DAY! And on special days, we have SPECIAL SONGS! One-two-three-four!

Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!  
Happy Birthday to you! Have fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuun!  
Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!  
Happy Birthday to you! You’re the oooooooooooooone!”

The animatronic band jerked and stuttered along with the pre-recorded track. One of Ronny Racoon’s pupils watched the group of kids gathered in front of the stage while the other glared with fierce intensity at the wall. Filbert was twitching too hard, and Kenny really hoped he wasn’t going to get stuck - he had nightmare visions of trying to unjam the stupid robot while a bunch of cute little kids watched on in horror.

Thankfully the band finished its horrible song without anything going catastrophically wrong, and as the last note wound down Kenny stepped out from the entrance he’d been half hiding in, holding a sheet cake up high. There was a sparkler on top, spitting away. The parents (most of whom were at least half blasted on cheap, watered down beer) clapped and tried to get the kids to ooh and aah. The kids of course didn’t care about showmanship and just hurried to their seats so they could have some cake.

“Hey, happy birthday!” Kenny said as he set the cake down carefully. The birthday boy was about six, he figured, and looked completely blown away by the entire affair.

“Thank you, mister,” he said shyly. 

“My pleasure. Have a good one, little dude.” Cake delivered, he retreated, pausing only at the door to the kitchen hallway so he could watch the parents and kids assembled laugh and clap. Ping Pong’s Pizza Emporium wasn’t exactly Disneyland - hell, it wasn’t Casa Bonita - but little kids were dumb and they would take fun wherever they could get it. It was kind of nice to see.

“Party’s going good, boss,” he said to Frank Perv as he put his apron back on over his uniform. 

Frank, busy checking inventory, looked up and flashed Kenny a grin. “Any of the little shits puke yet?”

“Nah, but give it half an hour once they start running around the arcade.”

“That’s fine, that’s the game staff’s problem.”

Kenny chuckled and turned his attention to stocking supplies. Any day he got to work with Frank was a good one - he was a smoker so he let the staff take smoke breaks whenever they could, and he was full of filthy stories. What was better though, in Kenny’s opinion, was that Frank wasn’t a bitter old fuck. He worked in the kitchen of a kid’s pizzeria, but he actually seemed to enjoy it. “Fuck it, I could work in some fancy place but why?’ he’d told Kenny once. “Rich assholes sending shit back because they’re miserable. Here at least the customers have a great time.”

Frank wasn’t married, and Kenny wondered if maybe Frank had wanted children of his own. Maybe that’s why he got such a kick out of the kids, who he unfailingly referred to as “little shits.”

Frank was proof that life might not turn out how you planned, but it didn’t have to turn you cynical. Kenny felt that was an important lesson, especially for someone in his unique position.

“Hey, Frank?” he asked as he hauled a bag of paper plates down from a storage shelf. “How old are those robots in the theatre anyway? My buddy Stan says they’re from the eighties.”

Frank nodded. “That’s right. ‘86 or ‘87, I think, is when they got installed. Hard to imagine now, but they were a big fuckin’ deal at the time. This place was _huge_ \- booked for birthdays wall-to-wall every weekend, and even weekday evenings.”

“Weird,” Kenny said. He supposed maybe technology was a lot newer and more impressive in the eighties, which was about a hundred years ago as far as he was concerned. “Guess people got tired of it.”

“Yeah. Well. And there were a couple of accidents.”

Kenny paused and looked over, eyebrows raised. “Accidents?”

“Yeah. Couple of kids got real hurt. I guess they were fucking around on the animatronics and got caught on em somehow. One kid got his arm ripped off and bled to death.”

“No shit,” Kenny breathed. 

“Yeah. Bad for business, as you can probably guess.”

Kenny nodded. “Yeah. I can imagine. Yo, I’m gonna run these up front.”

“Good. Hey, McCormick?”

“Yeah?” 

Frank looked from side to side, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. “They say that kid’s ghost still haunts the theatre.” 

Kenny’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

Frank bellowed laughter. “Nah, I’m just fuckin’ with you. Go on, do your fuckin job.”

Laughing, Kenny turned to do just that. Mentally, he made a note to Google the supposed death - the guys would find it morbidly fascinating, if nothing else.

\--

Late Saturday morning, and the Broflovskis were sat in the parking lot of the South Park Mall. Well, aside from Gerald, who'd gone inside to pick up a new coffee maker after the old one had gone tits up. They'd stopped on their way home from Temple, which meant they were all dressed nicely. Kyle hated sitting in the back of the car - it always cramped his legs. Ike had no such problem, being a perfectly average Canadian height. Kyle shifted a little, staring out the window at nothing in particular. His mother had the front passenger window rolled down about halfway, keeping the temperature chilly without being unpleasant. 

It also meant that a sickly saccharine voice drifted into the vehicle with no problem. "Why, hello Mrs. Broflovski!"

Kyle groaned and looked forward. He was on the same side of the car as his mother, so he had an absolutely perfect view of Eric Cartman leaning down and smiling in at them. To the unwary, this looked like simple friendliness. To Kyle, it looked like potential trouble.

Oblivious to her eldest son's discomfort, Sheila smiled. "Why, hello, Eric. You're out and about early." 

"Just getting some shopping done," Eric said in the pleasant tone he reserved exclusively for adults he was trying to get one over on. Kyle really couldn't believe that after so many years of Cartman being _Cartman_ it still worked. He supposed the fact that he had a surprisingly winning smile helped. "I'm working on a project, and Joanne's has a sale on."

"Oh, that's good to know! I get my crochet supplies there."

Cartman's eyes sparkled. Kyle could practically hear the cheap Jew jokes running through his head. He sunk down a little lower in his seat.

"I didn't know you crocheted, Mrs. Broflovski! Gosh, that's really difficult."

"Oh, no, I'm no expert, I just make things for the boys sometimes--"

Kyle's eyes widened. _No. Nonono don't say--_

"I made the kippot they're wearing, actually."

Kyle died inside. Outside he just blushed and tried to sink through the car seat. Ike seemed completely unbothered. Cartman was grinning widely, and in his eyes Kyle could see that the fat bastard was laughing at him. 

Kyle resisted the urge to yank said kippah off of his head, knowing his mother would notice and take it wrong. He really didn't want to explain to her that Cartman used any possible evidence of Kyle's Jewishness against him. This train of thought in turn made him feel guilty, as it implied he was ashamed of his heritage, and that in turn pissed him off. Only Cartman could incite so much emotion without even _doing_ anything. 

"That's sweet," Cartman said. He waved. "Hey, Kyle."

"Cartman." 

"If you're not doing anything later, you should come by and see all the cool stuff I got." He smiled at Sheila. "Kyle's been nice enough to help me out with some of this."

"Oh, how wonderful!" Sheila enthused, pleased as always to hear that her son was being helpful and generous. "Yes, Kyle, you ought to do just that."

Kyle stared. "Ma," he started. 

"Kewl," Cartman interrupted. "Well, I should get going."

"Goodbye, Eric," Sheila said happily. "Say hello to your mother for me!"

"Of course, Mrs. Broflovski! See you later, Kyle!" 

"You know, he's really become such a handsome young man," Sheila mused as Cartman walked off. Kyle stared at the back of her head in horror. 

" _What?!_ " Kyle nearly shrieked. Ike looked up from his phone and gave him a curious look. 

"He was such a pudgy little boy, but he really has lost a lot of that baby fat."

"Yeah, now it's grown-up lard," Kyle muttered.

"Kyle!"

"He's still kinda fat," Ike decided to contribute to the conversation. "He's just a lot bigger all over now."

Kyle felt his brain short out momentarily at the phrasing. Ike gave him another look. "I mean like a football player, if he lost some of his gut," Ike explained. 

"Whatever," Kyle snorted. "Still a fatass to me."

He absolutely did not spend the drive home thinking about Cartman's body.

\--

 _I must be a masochist,_ Kyle thought as he lifted his hand to ring the doorbell. Cartman had deliberately gone out of his way to invite him over that morning, which was of course suspicious as all hell. Surely, something terrible awaited him inside that house… but Kyle found it very hard to stay away. 

Ostensibly this was because Kyle felt he had a moral responsibility to protect the general populace from Cartman's schemes. The reality was much more complicated, tied up in feelings of secrecy, safety, curiosity, and just plain fun. That was maybe the weirdest part - it was genuinely fun helping Cartman with his project. 

Cartman answered the door. "Why, hello, Kahl," he said, using the same bogus tone he had on Kyle's mother earlier. "So nice of you to drop by."

"Cut the crap, jackass," Kyle replied. "You might have convinced my mother that you're not an anti-Semitic piece of shit, but I know you better." He pushed his way inside, hanging his coat up.

"Kahl, I'm hurt. I didn't even make fun of your stupid little Jew hat."

Kyle made a strangled growling noise. "Drop it, I'm warning you."

Cartman sniggered as they walked into the living room. No sign of Liane anywhere, Kyle noted. "But it's so cuuuuute," Cartman cooed. "Your mom making you one in your favourite colour."

Kyle was raising a first to punch Cartman on the shoulder, but he stopped. "What?"

Cartman shrugged. "Well, it was green, wasn't it? For some reason you've always been determined to make yourself look as much like a leprechaun as possible."

"Don't mention leprechauns," Kyle said quickly. 

"I do have one question," Cartman said, and Kyle braced himself. To his astonishment, Cartman only asked, "How the fuck do they stay on?"

"What?"

"Those stupid pussy hats. Especially yours, with your fucking Jewfro."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "I use hairclips, okay?" He eyed Cartman sharply, waiting for the mockery. To his surprise, the other boy just took up his place on the floor by the coffee table and sewing machine. There was a bag from Joanne's Fabrics on the floor beside him, and he started pulling trim out of it. 

"So I'm thinking black," he explained, holding some up. "Graphic, but not so much I look like a fucking bumblebee." Cartman looked at Kyle, his gaze defiant, as if he expected a snide comment about his weight. 

"I think that sounds cool," Kyle said casually instead. He wasn't sure why Cartman wasn't being entirely antagonistic, but he didn't want to be the one to break their uneasy truce.

"Damn right."

"And we gotta get this coat together," Kyle pointed out. "I watched some tutorials, I think I more or less know how to do it, I just hope it doesn't fuck up the volume of the puffy shit. Can I use the machine?"

They settled into work, picking up where they'd left off with Drag Race as well. While Kyle was busy struggling with the sewing machine - he kept fucking up the thread from the bobbin - Cartman got up to go to the kitchen. He put a cold, open can down beside Kyle, who sipped from it without looking. He very nearly choked at the taste. 

"Cartman! This is beer!" he exclaimed. 

Cartman looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Uh, _yeah._ Way to appreciate my hospitality, you ungrateful Jew."

Kyle scowled. "I didn't ask for this," he pointed out. Cartman rolled his eyes. 

"Fine. If you don't want it, I'll just pour it out, Jesus."

"I didn't say-- okay, no. It's fine. Thanks, dude." 

"There you go, untwist those panties, Kahl."

"I'm hoping it'll make YOU more tolerable."

The banter was easy. Comfortable. And honestly, having something to focus on that he wasn't being graded on was enjoyable, too. Kyle even agreed to another beer once the first was gone. Fuck it, it was Saturday and his mom wasn't expecting him home for dinner. 

While Cartman was busy repinning yellow fabric, Kyle gestured at the television. 

"Hey. You were only half right."

"Impossible, I'm always 100% right."

Kyle shook his head, grinning. "Nope, I looked it up. Michelle was adopted by Jewish parents. She's like Ike."

Cartman snorted. "I mean, I feel good for HER - her blood isn't tainted."

Kyle held up a finger. "But you know who is completely and utterly Jewish? Your favourite. Sasha's last name is Steinberg for fuckssake." He felt so utterly vindicated by this fact, and he couldn't stop grinning. "Face it, Cartman, you love the skinny intellectual Jew!"

Cartman had stopped moving, staring at Kyle with an unreadable expression. The tips of his ears were turning pink, Kyle noticed, and it made him grin wider. This was just too perfect. 

"If she ever wears a red wig, you're SO fucked," Kyle giggled. 

Cartman very carefully put aside his fabric. Slowly, he moved closer to Kyle, stopping only a few inches away. Kyle's grin faltered a little.

"Cartman?" he asked. "You okay, dude?"

"Do you think this is funny, Kahl?" 

Kyle's grin slipped away entirely. "I mean… yes? It's ironic, that's all I meant, because… you know. You're always ragging on me, so I thought…"

"Why are you here, Kahl?" Cartman asked. His voice was low, almost throaty. 

"You asked me over," Kyle replied, feeling prickles of annoyance. His face felt too warm.

"You seem to like it," Cartman pointed out.

"I. Yeah. So? We're just… hanging out."

Cartman's golden brown eyes regarded Kyle with amusement. "Yeah, just a couple of dudes hanging out, doing totally hetero guy things," he said, darkly sarcastic. 

Kyle opened his mouth, then shut it again. Cartman was very close and Kyle found himself eyeing his shoulders again. He didn't move as Cartman reached over and pulled his ushanka off and dropped it to the floor before grinning widely. 

"Yeah, I like Sasha. Scrawny, nerdy, faggy big-nosed Jew," he purred. "What's not to like? Hm, _Kahl?_ "

Kyle made a sound - half scream, half groan - and threw himself at Cartman. He didn't manage to knock him over this time - Cartman was expecting it, and he outweighed Kyle considerably. They gripped one another's arms, snarling and shoving, shuffling on their knees. Cartman was winning, Kyle realised as he was forced back, back bumping against the couch, and he shifted, sitting down on the floor with a thump. He lifted his leg, grinning savagely when he kneed Cartman in the ribs. Then he was wrapping his leg around Cartman's waist and pulling him close.

Cartman crashed into Kyle, body heavy and warm, pressing him uncomfortably against the couch. Kyle barely had time to get his breath back before Cartman's mouth was on his, and there was a hand in his hair and he was kissing back, opening his mouth eagerly. Cartman pushed his tongue into his mouth, greedy, and Kyle dug his fingers into his broad, soft shoulders as hard as he could. He was being _devoured_ ; he tasted beer and smelled sweat and something heavy and animal.

Cartman pulled at his hair and Kyle tore his mouth away from their kiss, moaning. He wrestled to one side, sliding down so his back was on the floor. Cartman followed, his weight pressing Kyle down further. Kyle kept his one leg tight around him, and then rocked up hard, grinding himself against Cartman's thigh. 

"Oh my god," Cartman whispered shakily before he mauled Kyle's neck. Teeth grazed Kyle's pulse and he snapped his hips up, whining deep back in his throat. His arms went around Cartman's neck, refusing to let him pull away. His whole body felt electric, his hips twitching to the deep bass beat of his heart. 

When he felt a large, warm hand palm his cock through his jeans, Kyle groaned and found himself trying to spread his legs wider. A distant part of his brain not entirely fried by lust was currently screaming like an old dowager, shocked by his own wantonness. 

Apparently he wasn't the only one, because Kyle felt Cartman huff out a laugh against the hot skin of his neck. "Holy shit, Kyle, you dirty girl."

Kyle didn't hesitate, just thumped Cartman on the back of his skull with one hand. "Don't call me a girl."

"Fine, whatever, just…"

Cartman was kissing him again, licking his way into Kyle's mouth, and Kyle found his fingers running through Cartman's hair as he did so. It was so soft, silky in a way he was unfamiliar with. He could feel something hard pushing against his thigh and he shivered. He made a mewling, disappointed noise when Cartman pulled his mouth away. 

"Shh, I wanna do something," Cartman said, pressing a kiss to the pale juncture between Kyle's neck and shoulder. He squeezed Kyle gently through his jeans. "Okay?"

"Yeah, good, okay," Kyle replied. The idea of the other bothering to ask for permission was new and strange, and he would reflect on it except Cartman was pulling away a little, his hands unbuttoning Kyle's fly and pulling his zipper down, and he should probably swat his hands away but then the elastic on his briefs was being tugged aside and hot, thick fingers were encircling his cock. 

Nobody else had ever touched him there, and Kyle felt his cheeks heat up, embarrassed by how eager he was to feel more. Cartman began moving his hand, oddly tentative. He was propped up on his other forearm enough that he wasn't crushing Kyle, but his weight was still enough to pin him. Part of Kyle wanted to fight that weight, but another found the sensation arousing, and oddly comforting. 

Cartman twisted his wrist as he moved his hand up and down, thumb flicking over the head of Kyle's cock. The redhead tightened his arms around Cartman's neck, panting. 

"Jesus, you're so fucking hard," Cartman whispered. 

"Yeah, I noticed," Kyle snapped back. 

"I'm fucking jerking you off and you're still being a little bitch," Cartman said, sounding amused but also sort of strangled. He didn't stop moving his hand.

Kyle turned his head and bit Cartman's ear lightly. "Harder," he hissed. The brunette sucked in a breath as if wounded, rhythm momentarily broken, but then he readjusted his grip and stroked Kyle more firmly. 

"Like that?"

"Yeah," Kyle managed to say. His eyes were closed, his head lolling back on his neck. He could feel Cartman's erection still pressed insistently against his thigh and he pressed his leg up experimentally. Cartman groaned, long and low. The sound made Kyle's heart leap a little, victorious. 

"I want you to touch me," Cartman whispered, his voice a low, throaty growl. Kyle shivered.

"I. Yeah." 

In spite of the fact that he'd asked for it, Cartman's surprise was palpable. "Seriously?"

Kyle nodded. Every inch of his skin felt scalding hot and painfully sensitive. He swallowed thickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I want to. Sit up." 

The big brunette moved off of him slowly. Kyle could finally see his face, which was a blotchy red. His pupils were absolutely blown, and he licked his lips nervously as Kyle sat up. It was, without a doubt, the most unsure and undone he had ever seen Eric Cartman look.

It was really hot. 

Kyle reached over and shoved Cartman in the chest. "Get your fucking clothes off," he said, shocked by the raspy sound of his own voice. Somewhere, a more lucid part of him was screeching, _What are you DOING?!_ but that seemed unimportant as Cartman actually did exactly what Kyle told him to - his hands went to his jeans and unzipped them. Awkwardly, they both rushed to yank their pants and underwear off. Kyle hauled his shirt off as well, tossing it to one side before really _looking_ at Cartman. 

Cartman was staring back. Sitting on the floor, cock rock-hard, t-shirt still on, staring at Kyle as if trying to burn the image of him into his retinas. Kyle felt his face go scarlet and resisted the urge to cover himself. 

"Take your fucking shirt off," he said, moving closer. "You look like Winnie the Pooh, I'm not gonna… do. Things. To you. If you look like a Disney character."

"Things," Cartman echoed, smirking. "Wow, Kyle, that's some real great dirty talk."

Kyle scowled. "Shut the fuck up and take it off or I'm not getting on your lap."

That apparently decided it; Cartman peeled his shirt off. His expression was defensive, and Kyle realised with shock and dismay that the guy was waiting to be made fun of.

Instead, Kyle knee-walked up, legs on either side of one of Cartman's. He ran his hands over his broad shoulders, blushing furiously, then leaned down to kiss Cartman on the mouth. It deepened quickly, Cartman's hands coming to grip Kyle's hips. Slowly, Kyle sank down, acutely aware of how much bare skin they were pressing against one another. He pulled his mouth back.

"I like this," he murmured, squeezing Cartman's shoulders. He let go to run his hands lightly over his clavicles, then lower to skate over his chest. "I like this," he repeated, voice not quite steady. One hand he slid lower, over the creamy groundswell of Cartman's belly to find his cock. The brunette sucked air in and only released it once Kyle's hand started moving. Cartman felt so different in his hand - thicker, uncut. Kyle couldn't help himself, he had to look, fascinated. It occurred to him that he was watching his hand stroking another guy's dick and he felt his entire body flush hotly. "Oh boy," he said. His voice was unsteady.

Cartman, the bastard, had the nerve to laugh. It was a breathy, winded sound but his amusement was clearly genuine. Kyle smacked his shoulder with his free hand. Cartman wrapped an arm around Kyle's waist. "Get on my lap, you dumb slut," he said through an insufferable grin. Kyle shifted, Cartman helping to move him, and then his legs were wrapped around Cartman's waist, his free arm around his neck. 

Their cocks bumped and slid against one another and Kyle gasped. He wrapped his hand around Cartman's cock again, stroking it, feeling strangely powerful when Cartman whimpered beneath him. "Yeah," Kyle murmured. "Yeah, good." He leaned down to capture Cartman's lips in another searing kiss. 

Cartman raised a hand to run his fingers through Kyle's curls, pulling away after they'd kissed one another hard enough to bruise. He caught Kyle's eye and held his gaze as he tugged his hair hard. Kyle choked back a sharp moan. 

"Oh, I fucking love that," Cartman said as Kyle stroked him faster. "Goddamn I love your stupid fucking hair so fucking much…" 

_I could get fucked right now,_ Kyle realised. _Just ride him._ The thought made his stomach bottom out and his whole body run white hot. It was too much, far too much, and he buried his burning face in the hollow of Cartman's neck. 

Cartman moved his hand between them, gently pushing Kyle's away so he could encircle both of their cocks and stroke. 

"Ohmyfuckinggod," Kyle said, all in a rush. "Yes, yes." Cartman stroked harder, faster, and Kyle found himself rocking helplessly. "Don't stop, don't you dare stop, I. Ah. _Ah._ " His arms tightened convulsively around the bigger boy's neck. 

"Oh my god, Kyle," Cartman said, voice closer to a sob than anything else. 

Kyle didn't say anything, but he bit the soft flesh of Cartman's neck to stifle a yell when he came. Cartman wrapped his hand firmly around his own cock and finished himself off in a few quick, hard, strokes. It was hard to tell, but it sounded like he was panting Kyle's name over and over as he did.

Their laboured breathing and galloping hearts seemed very loud. Kyle stayed clinging to Cartman like a koala, conscious thought slowly returning. He was sweaty. Sticky. The television was still on. 

Horrified, Kyle snapped his head up. They were in _Cartman's living room_ and the blinds were open. The curtains at least provided some cover, but they weren't drawn. He could see outside. 

"Dude!" he hissed. "Your fucking window!" Nightmare visions of Butters dropping by flashed through his mind. Or Kenny. Or Stan, even though that wasn't even remotely likely. 

"Huh?"

Kyle slapped Cartman's back. "The blinds are fucking open! Fuck, fuck, where are my… oh fuck, we're covered in…" 

Cartman's shoulders shook as he laughed. "Calm the fuck down, oh my god, you're such a neurotic little shit sometimes." Unbothered, Cartman leaned back and grabbed some scrap fabric, cleaning them both up as best he could before letting Kyle slip off of his lap. Kyle immediately grabbed for his underwear, turning away to get it. Cartman started snickering. 

"What?" Kyle snapped.

"Dat ass," he replied. Kyle went red faced immediately and Cartman held his hands up. "Not my fault it's perfect, Broflovski. Look, if you wanna shower, you can. Clean towels are in the hall closet."

Kyle paused. His flight instinct was screaming at him to get dressed and run outside, but the fastidious side of him sure wanted that shower. As usual, cleanliness won out. "Cool. Yeah. Thanks." He paused after gathering his clothes back up. "Uh. I'll be right back."

He knew the layout of the Cartman residence; again, they'd known each other most of their lives and he'd been over countless times. He grabbed a towel and headed into the bathroom for a scalding shower. 

As he washed, Kyle had time to think. Thinking was not a good thing. 

_You had sex with Eric Cartman._

_No I didn't! I just…_

_Oh my god. I had handsex with Eric Cartman._

Kyle closed his eyes tightly.

_I was drunk._

_Bullshit, you had two beers, you were tipsy. You got tipsy, fought, and then decided to attack Cartman with your dick. At least admit it to yourself, Kyle._

By the time he'd gotten dressed again, Kyle had achieved a perfect equilibrium between terror and acceptance. He walked downstairs to find Cartman, clothed and seated on the couch, studying fabric trim. Kyle cleared his throat.

"So. Uh."

"You gonna try and spin this like some sneaky Jew lawyer?" Cartman asked, sounding more curious than upset.

"No," Kyle said, annoyed. "I just…"

"Let me save your breath, firecrotch," Cartman said, looking up. His gaze caught Kyle and held him. "It's called hatesex."

"Hatesex," Kyle echoed. 

"Yup," Cartman replied, popping the 'p'. "So don't freak out. I'm not gonna tell the whole fucking town. We don't have to do anything different."

Kyle regarded Cartman for a long moment. "Don't call me firecrotch," he said at last. 

Cartman grinned. "You gonna go?"

"Uh. Yeah." 

He waved, attention going back to his sewing. "Kewl. Later, Jew."

Kyle left, fighting a persistent sense of unreality. 

_I'm so fucked._

\--

Stan was just setting the dinner table for his mother when his father burst into the house, yelling, "SHARON!" 

Stan nearly dropped the plates he was holding. "Jesus!" he exclaimed. 

From the kitchen he heard his mother say, "What?" She sounded a lot more annoyed than concerned. 

"Sharon, the Satanic Alien Illuminati is HERE! They're stealing kids!"

Stan sighed. He finished putting the plates on the table, face screwed up in exasperation. 

"Nobody is stealing kids, Randy," Sharon said. She was not entertaining his nonsense in the slightest. 

"Oh, yeah? Then how come they're saying one vanished from the pizza joint on the police radio, huh?"

A pause. "Randy, how do you--?"

"Towlie and I bought a police scanner years ago. You know, just in case."

Stan entered the kitchen. Predictably, his mother was busy with dinner while his father stood by the outside entrance, eyes wide and half mad with panic. Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut for a second. 

"Dad," he said. "What are you talking about? What pizza place?" 

Randy turned his attention on Stan. "Ping Pong's Pizza Emporium," he intoned darkly. "Remember what I showed you online, Stan? I was right - it's happening here, now. Kids being stolen for Satanic Alien Rituals! Murder! Blood orgies!"

Stan grit his teeth. "Dad, just… some kid got abducted from Ping Pong's? When?"

"Earlier today," Randy replied. "There was a birthday party and the kid just vanished."

Stan blanched. "Jesus, I think Kenny was working there today."

"Stan! You have to warn him!"

Sharon rolled her eyes. "Randy, calm down. Stan, you should call Kenny after dinner, make sure he's okay. Randy, stop pacing and go sit the hell down at the table." 

"How can you be so heartless, Sharon? There's BLOOD ORGIES!" Randy himself apparently wasn't that broken up over it, however, considering he grabbed a beer from the fridge before going to sit down. 

Mother and son shared an exasperated look. 

"I do hope Kenny is okay," Sharon said as she went to take chicken out of the oven. 

"I'm sure he is," Stan said softly. He knew no such thing, but he hoped.


	5. So Fuckin' Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Randy Marsh rallies the townsfolk. Cartman reveals his alter ego. Kyle's continued sexual awakening prompts a heart to heart with Stan. 
> 
> Butters is still just happy to be here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's smutty. There's also some pretty harsh self loathing and racist language happening. Oh, and missing kids. Basically, you know, tread carefully.

The kid's name was Brent Tomlinson. He'd just turned six years old. 

"Dude, I gave that kid his fucking birthday cake," Kenny said, visibly distraught. That alone drove home how serious the situation was - Kenny's equilibrium was notorious. 

Stan put a hand on Kenny's shoulder and squeezed. "Dude," he said softly. 

"Maybe they'll find him," Kyle offered. 

"Still haven't found Coach Ballzack's kid," Cartman pointed out. Kyle shot him a sharp look and he shrugged. 

The four boys were out on the bleachers by the high school field, having wordlessly decided to skip first period. Kenny was smoking, his eyes hollow. Kyle was trying to chew his already mangled hangnails. 

"So they have no idea what happened?" Stan asked. Kenny shook his head. 

"No. They called the cops once we figured out he wasn't anywhere. I mean it, dude, he was GONE, we were all looking fucking everywhere." He shoved his hair back from his face. "I had to go give a statement and shit… man, I just don't get it. Nobody saw any grownups bothering the kids or anything. I guess if he went outside? But he seemed like such a shy little dude."

"Someone can get a kid into a van with candy pretty easy," Cartman said. 

"You mean someone can get YOU into a van with candy,” Kyle said. “Even now.” Cartman scowled and flipped him off.

Stan was frowning deeply. “Kyle,” he said at length. “Do you know anything about Ballzack’s kid? Like, _where_ she went missing from?”

Kyle shook his head. “No, not offhand. But if it was reported in the paper it’d be online.”

“Failing that, your mom probably knows,” Cartman suggested. “Since it’s her hobby to be up the ass of everyone in town at all times.” This earned him a punch to the bicep before Kyle turned his attention to his phone.

Kenny was looking at Stan cautiously. “You have the ‘I have an idea’ look.”

Stan shrugged. “Not yet. Just… some stuff my dad’s been talking about. I dunno, it seems pretty far fetched.”

“Says here she went missing after a friend’s birthday party,” Kyle said after a moment, reading from off his phone. “She was supposed to be sleeping over after the party, so Coach didn’t realise she was gone right away. That leaves a huge fucking gap of time where nobody seems to know where she was.”

Stan and Kenny exchanged a glance.

“Was the party at Ping Pong’s?” Stan asked, feeling a little sick.

Kyle consulted his phone again and nodded. “Yeah.”

The four boys sat in silence for a while. The smoke from Kenny’s cigarette curled up into the sky, unravelling and fading from view. 

“It’s supposed to be haunted,” Kenny said suddenly. 

“Your ass?” Cartman asked nonsensically. 

“No. The Pizzeria. My boss was just telling me. The animatronics, Stan, you were right, they’re from the eighties. And some kids were playing on em and one died. It’s true, I even googled it.” He took another drag of his cigarette. “My boss was saying the ghost haunts the theatre. He was just fucking with me, but. I dunno. It’s creepy.”

Stan nodded absently, chewing his lip. He didn’t think that a ghost was killing little kids. But did that make it some weird cult? No. That was equally as ridiculous. Wasn’t it? He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, this town is depressing. Let’s talk about anything else.”

“Agreed,” Kyle said, back to biting at his fingers.

“Alright,” Kenny said amicably. “Cartman, who the fuck gave you a hickey?”

Stan whipped his head around so fast he nearly fell over, and Kyle choked on one of his hangnails. Cartman, for his part, went deathly pale for a second before his cheeks suffused with bright red colour. 

“Shut up, Kenny!” he snarled. “I don’t have a hickey!”

“There’s no way he has a hickey,” Stan said in agreement. Cartman obviously wasn’t sure if he should be glad of the support or offended by it. Stan looked at Cartman’s neck, shocked to see that there was indeed a hell of a mark there. Cartman clapped a hand over it the second he noticed Stan peering at him. 

“Dude. Did you like… use a vacuum on yourself?” Stan guessed. He’d seen that in a movie or a sitcom once, he was pretty sure.

“Naw,” Kenny interjected before Cartman could reply. “Vacuum cleaners don’t have teeth. You could take fucking dental records from that shit.”

Stan snorted and looked over at Kyle, who was being conspicuously silent and staring pointedly across the field. Stan could tell at a glance that he was profoundly uncomfortable. 

_But why?_

“For your _information_ ,” Cartman was bellowing, “I was attacked by a huge motherfucking bug. It stung the hell out of my neck, so maybe you should be a little more sensitive, _Kinny._ ”

Kenny snorted and flicked the butt of his cigarette away. “You sure Butters didn’t mistake himself for Dracula again and crawl in through your window?”

“I don’t have to take this shit,” Cartman said, gathering himself up. “Screw you guys. I’m going to second period.” He stomped off, flipping the collar of his jacket up as he did so. 

Kenny laughed, shaking his head. “Jesus. Seriously, I hope it isn’t Butters. He’s way too delicate for Cartman.”

“I doubt it,” Stan said, still giving Kyle a sidelong glance.

“Fatass is right,” Kyle said, standing. “Bell’s gonna ring. Look, Kenny… You need anything, dude?”

Kenny shook his head. “Nah. Just gonna, you know. Dwell on the cosmic unfairness of a world that takes away some little kids and lets other assholes just keep on living and living.”

Stan squeezed Kenny’s shoulder. “If I don’t see you at lunch, text me later, dude.” He got up and joined Kyle in heading back toward the school. Kenny stayed where he was, looking up at the sky. 

\--

Kyle wasn't planning to go to Cartman’s on Tuesday. Sure, basketball was still cancelled, and he didn’t particularly relish the idea of going home to study or endure his mother getting after him about his plans for university, but the idea of going back to Cartman’s house was just too _weird._

But then there was Butters.

The round-faced blonde showed up at Kyle’s locker, eyes huge and blue and hopeful. “Are you gonna come to Eric’s?” he asked with a sweet smile. All of Butters’ smiles were sweet - he had somehow retained a hopeful and genuinely kind outlook on life in spite of all the horrible things that had happened to him.

“Uh,” Kyle stalled. Poorly.

“I sure hope so! He texted me and said pretty much everything is done!” Butters beamed. “You oughtta come see, Kyle, we all put a lot of work into this. Oh, boy, imagine if he actually gets picked for the show!”

The thing was… Kyle could imagine it perfectly. The ‘I’m not here to make friends’ speeches, the fights with other queens, the sabotage of other people’s baking… It was all tailor made for someone like Eric Cartman.

Kyle considered lying, but lying to Butters always felt a bit like kicking a kitten. So instead he sighed and grabbed his backpack.

“Yeah. Yeah, I wouldn’t miss it.”

Which is how he wound up in Cartman’s living room, sitting on the couch next to Butters, as Cartman descended the staircase in the fruit of their collective labours. Plus wig. Plus enough makeup to stock a Sephora. Lip syncing to Miley Cyrus as if his life depended on it. 

The whole scene was incredibly, unabashedly stupid. 

As Butters cheered beside him, Kyle found his face split into a huge grin. He really couldn’t help it. When it wasn't for nefarious purposes, and specifically not directed at Kyle, Cartman’s intense showmanship was downright impressive. The self consciousness most guys their age would have felt about donning women’s clothes and pretending to belt out pop songs was just completely absent in him; Cartman was impossible to embarrass. It was something Kyle had to grudgingly admire. 

He also had to admit Cartman had rhythm. Goddammit. 

With a final hair toss, Cartman fixed Butters and Kyle with a confident stare. He put one hand on a curvaceous hip. “I look fucking hot,” he said.

“You look great, Eric!” Butters enthused. “Golly! That coat is fantastic!” 

Kyle pursed his lips as he looked Cartman over critically. “You need to fix the hem of your dress at the back,” he said. “And I dunno about that lipstick, dude.”

Cartman rolled his eyes. “Look at this shit,” he said to Butters. “Fucking picky bitch over here can’t even deliver a compliment.”

Kyle grinned. “I like the song,” he said sweetly. Cartman flipped him off, although he seemed pleased anyway. “Did you skip last period just to come home and put all of that shit on?”

“Yes,” Cartman admitted readily. “Whatever, Kahl, I needed you guys to get the full effect.” He smoothed his hands down over his hips again. “I am _so_ getting on this stupid fucking show. And then you mark my words, sluts, Dixie Normous is gonna win that shit.”

Kyle choked on air. “You’re calling yourself _Dixie Normous?!_ ” he managed to cough out. “Cartman! That’s…”

“Truth in advertising? I know, Jew.”

“I was gonna say that’s disgusting.”

“Crystal Nacht was an option,” Cartman said through an evil grin.

“Nevermind, I like Dixie.”

“Holly Cost?”

“I SAID Dixie was FINE, fatass!”

“Jenna Side?”

Kyle half rose from the couch. “Don’t think just because you’re dressed as a girl I won’t knock you down,” he growled. Butters looked alarmed, but Cartman just laughed.

“You’re so fucking violent, Kahl,” he said, shaking his head. “Alright. I can’t breathe, I’m gonna get out of this. Butters, you secured camera equipment for the weekend, right?”

“Sure did!” Butters chirped. 

“Great. We’ll shoot the lip sync on Saturday and the baking on Sunday. Kahl. I need your ass, too.” Kyle blinked, brain shorting out for a second. Cartman must have noticed, because his smile turned salacious. “For filming,” Cartman explained further.

“Oh. Shit, this weekend? Christ, Cartman, way to give me notice.”

“Please, like you were gonna do anything besides study and hang out with Stan.”

Okay, he had a point there. “I’m not blowing Stan off,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“We’ll work around your little date,” Cartman said as he rolled his eyes. “Kewl. I’ll be right back.” He turned and walked upstairs, hips rolling exaggeratedly. Beside Kyle, Butters whistled softly.

“Boy,” the blonde sighed. “Eric sure does make a heckuva queen, huh Kyle?”

“Yeah,” he had to admit. 

Butters hopped to his feet and grabbed Kyle’s hands. “C’mon,” he said excitedly, pulling Kyle up. “Let me show you the dancin’ we’ve got planned…”

By the time Cartman finally finished getting undressed, stripping off all of his makeup, and showering, Butters had managed the impossible: he had Kyle Broflovski dancing. Not _well_ \- Kyle was six foot two and had all the grace of a newborn deer. But he and Butters were just screwing around, the music on Cartman's stereo blasting. Cartman watched from the stairs for a moment, silent. Kyle’s hair poked out from beneath his hat, and he was laughing as Butters bumped his hip into him. It would be the easiest thing in the world to hurl an insult at him.

Instead Cartman bounded down the rest of the stairs and joined them.

The moment couldn’t last, but for a few minutes at least all three of them shrugged off any sense of self consciousness and masculine propriety and simply had fun. Kyle found himself looking at Cartman, who was smiling. _Really_ smiling, not smirking or laughing maniacally. 

“Oh, hamburgers!” Butters exclaimed as he looked at the clock. “I’m having a swell time, fellas, but I really have to get going.” He reluctantly went to grab his things, and Cartman walked him to the door.

“Don’t forget,” Cartman told him sternly. “Camera equipment. This weekend.”

“You bet!” Butters waved at Kyle before he turned and trotted down the steps outside. Cartman shut the door and looked at Kyle, who was standing in the doorway of the living room, awkwardly massaging the back of his neck. 

“So,” Kyle started. “Seriously, good job, dude.” It felt important that Kyle delivered the compliment. “You worked hard. I’m impressed.”

Cartman snorted. “Yeah, well,” he muttered. He wasn’t really sure what else to say about it, so he just walked toward the living room. He was stopped by Kyle’s hand on his wrist. He looked up at the redhead, gaze calmly questioning. 

Kyle cleared his throat. “I. Sorry about your neck.”

Cartman looked at his wrist for a moment, then back at Kyle’s face. He twisted his hand in the other boy’s grip, fingers grabbing Kyle’s wrist back. He yanked Kyle’s arm, pulling him closer. Stretching up, he put his lips close to Kyle’s ear. “Do you think about it when you jerk off?” he inquired, his voice low and velvety. “Do you think about how I taste, Kyle?”

Kyle’s cock gave an interested twitch. “I.” He swallowed hard. 

Cartman placed his other hand on the small of Kyle’s back. “Do you think about me fucking you, Kyle?” he asked, pressing his face closer to Kyle's neck. "Because I do. I bet I could make you come so hard you scream."

Kyle bared his teeth. "Like to see you try," he said, the implication of his words not sinking in until after they'd left his lips. Cartman pulled back enough to stare at him, lips slightly parted, eyes burning furiously into Kyle's own. He seemed unable to decide if he should continue or not.

"Bedroom," Kyle rasped. Wordlessly, Cartman tightened his grip on Kyle's wrist and hauled him toward and up the stairs. They stumble-ran into Cartman's room, slamming the door behind them. His wrist finally free, Kyle backed up toward the bed, eyes watching the brunette as warily as if he were a tiger.

"I can't stop thinking about you," Cartman said, sounding pissed. "The noises you made. You liked it, didn't you? What we did. You think about it, too." It was unclear if this was dirty talk or a plea for agreement. 

"Yeah," Kyle breathed out shakily. 

"Take off that stupid hat." 

Kyle did as he was told, letting it drop to the floor without taking his eyes off of Cartman, who advanced on him slowly. He stopped a few inches away, breathing soft and rapid. Kyle reached down and grasped the hem of his own shirt, pulling it up and off of him. Cartman's eyes went immediately to all the newly exposed flesh, and Kyle repressed a shiver when the brunette licked his lips. “Fuck,” Cartman muttered. He reached out and put a hand on Kyle’s hip. “You’re so…”

Kyle slipped his arms around Cartman’s neck and kissed him hard, cutting off whatever he might have said. He didn’t want to hear it. 

It didn’t take long for the rest of their clothes to be pulled off, and then they fell to the bed together. Unsurprisingly, Cartman kissed like he did everything else: with single-minded passion, like he was trying to _win_ something. Kyle supposed some people might find it off-putting, but he found himself responding in kind. His fingers dug into Cartman’s shoulders, his hips, his thighs, all while he sucked at Cartman’s lips and tongue. He wanted to make Cartman mewl and whine, to leave bruises on his skin.

He took Cartman’s cock in his hand and stroked it, devouring the moan that elicited. He ducked his head, attacking his neck instead, before swallowing thickly and kissing lower. 

“What are…?” Cartman asked. His voice was strained.

“Just. Lay back.”

Cartman rolled onto his back, watching Kyle with a combination of lust and disbelief as Kyle wormed his way down his body. He tensed beneath Kyle’s hands and mouth, but he relaxed once Kyle had positioned himself by his hips, his hand wrapped around Cartman’s cock, pumping it steadily. Kyle was breathing quickly, and he only hesitated for a second before leaning over and experimentally licking the already weeping head of Cartman’s cock. Another second and he had taken it into his mouth, shifting to find the most comfortable position for him to bob his head. He kept his hand on the base of Cartman’s dick as he sucked and ran his tongue along hot flesh, shocked by how much he was enjoying it. It wasn’t precisely comfortable - Cartman was thick, keeping Kyle’s mouth stretched wide - but there was something deeply satisfying in it nonetheless. Cartman’s hands were fisted in Kyle’s curls, petting and pulling depending on what Kyle’s tongue was doing. “Kyle,” he growled softly. “Yeah, you pretty little cocksucker, you like that…” 

Part of Kyle wanted to stop and slap the shit out of Catman for what he was calling him. Most of him, however, reveled in it. He supposed it probably said something terrible about him that insults got him hard. 

Cartman’s hips started to try and surge up, and Kyle had to place his free hand on the hot skin above his groin, pressing back. Cartman was panting, the fingers in Kyle’s hair tightening convulsively. It hurt. Kyle could feel his head being forced down, and then with panic realised Cartman was coming, filling his mouth, and he backed up, choking and coughing. The rest of Cartman’s load hit him in the face. 

“Oh, shit,” Cartman said, sitting up to look at Kyle. He started laughing. Kyle, still coughing, punched him in the thigh.

“Asshole!” he managed to sputter.

Still laughing, Cartman moved to grab a box of tissues from his bedside table. He held them out and Kyle grabbed a few and began angrily wiping at his face. “You can’t hold my fucking head down!” he hissed. “Jesus Christ, Cartman, if you choke me on your dick I swear to God I’m gonna bite it off.” 

“Heat of the moment, babe,” Cartman said, grinning like a satisfied cat. He ran a hand through Kyle’s curls, oddly gentle. “Look at you. So angry.”

Kyle snarled before pressing his lips to Cartman’s, practically forcing his tongue into the other’s mouth. Cartman sighed and wrapped his big arms around Kyle, pulling him into his lap. Kissing him lazily, one of his hands drifted to Kyle’s cock and began stroking. He pressed his lips to Kyle’s ear and whispered filth into it, calling him a slut, asking him how he’d like to ride his fat cock, and it was an embarrassingly short time before Kyle was clinging to Cartman’s neck and shouting and whining as his body quaked with release. 

They broke apart. Cartman grabbed more tissues. Kyle mopped himself up. Nude, they both sat silent, not quite looking at one another.

Cartman was the first to break the silence. “You should stop wearing those fucking hats,” he said. 

Kyle looked over. They were both half-cradling themselves, hyper-aware of their bodies but unsure about what to do about it. “They hide my hair,” he explained.

“I know. That’s why they suck.”

“You’ve been making fun of my hair since we were little.”

“So?”

Kyle examined his hands. There were little red lines around the nails where he kept picking at his hangnails. “I hate my hair,” he said dully. “I hate it almost as much as I hate my nose.”

Cartman snorted, and Kyle felt his weight shift on the bed. “Your nose is _fine._ ”

Kyle turned, glaring fiercely at Cartman. “Oh, that’s fucking rich, coming from you. You’ve said it a million times: it’s huge, it’s ugly, and it’s a big fucking billboard for assholes like you that I’m a fucking _kike._ ” He spat the slur, his voice heavy with rage and loathing.

Cartman’s eyes widened and he sat still and silent. “Jesus, Kyle,” he said finally. “I didn’t mean. It’s not like that.”

Kyle looked down at the bed, shaking minutely. Eventually he shook his head. “Sometimes I see myself, and I want to fucking puke,” he whispered. “‘Scrawny, nerdy, faggy big-nosed Jew.’ You said it. And I hate you, Cartman, because you’re not wrong.”

He wasn’t expecting the hand on his shoulder, tentative and sweaty. “You’re not wrong either,” Cartman said. “I am a fatass. I could probably lose weight if I tried, but I’m lazy and I hate exercising. I have no self control, so it’s not like I’m gonna stop eating. I know I’m disgusting.”

“My mom thinks you’re handsome.”

“Too bad I’m not trying to bang your mom.”

Kyle half laughed and looked up. Cartman was watching him, and his eyes were solemn and scared. “What a pair we are,” Kyle croaked. “Fat and ugly.”

Cartman’s lips twitched. He snorted. Then he started giggling. Kyle found himself doing the same, until they were both cackling hysterically. He was going to get emotional whiplash.

“I should probably go,” Kyle said at length, wiping his face with the palms of his hands. He stood up, moving quickly to grab his clothes, feeling awkward and stupid.

“Yeah. Kyle?”

He paused, his pants pulled up but not buttoned. “What?”

“We do make a pair. You’re gonna think about me fucking you.”

Kyle’s face flushed scarlet. “Shut up, Cartman,” he said, grabbing his shirt and yanking it on. When he left the house he looked barely kept together. And he forgot his hat.

\--

Stan was going over his history notes in the kitchen when his phone pinged. 

**KB: dude pls tell me we're still on for sat**

Stan frowned. There was absolutely no reason that they wouldn't be, which meant something had triggered Kyle's anxiety. 

**SM: of course.  
u ok?**

There was a long pause, and Stan drummed his fingers on the kitchen table.

 **KB: yeah i'm fine**

A lie, and an obvious one at that. Stan sat with his phone in his hands, trying to decide on a course of action. Kyle might need him, might want someone to hug him and tell him things were going to be alright. On the other hand, he might lash out, because that's just how Kyle was. It was hard to gauge how it would go without context. 

Stan was pulled from his thoughts when his father bustled into the room carrying bags of snacks and beers. "Hi, Stan!" he said cheerfully. 

"Dad. Uh. What are you doing?"

"Having some people over," Randy replied. "I'm holding a meeting in the barn." He set down his bags and looked at Stan very seriously. "We've figured it out, Stanley. The Satanic Alien Illuminati. There's a secret tunnel that runs under Ping Pong's pizza, and they've been shuttling kids off to Utah that way."

Stan flipped his history text closed. "I'm going out," he said. 

"This is serious Stan! We know what's happening, and we know what needs to be done! We're going to have a meeting, and then we're going to tell the police. We won't let another kid get taken."

"That's really noble, dad, I just don't believe a shitty pizza joint has a devil tunnel." He stood. "I'm taking mom's car." 

"You stay safe out there, son. We can't know how far this secret society extends. People on TikTok are saying it could go all the way to the government."

Stan rolled his eyes as he walked away, hoping his mother knew that her husband had invited a bunch of random people over.

The drive from the farm to Kyle's house was calming; Stan listened to some of the lo-fi music Wendy had introduced him to. By the time he pulled up in the Broflovski driveway, he had mostly buried his frustrations with his dad. He climbed out of the car and knocked at the door, pleased when Ike answered. 

"Hey, Ike. Is Kyle home?"

Ike nodded, stepping aside so Stan could enter. "He's in his room being weird."

"Weird how?"

Ike shrugged. "You know, when he gets all…" Ike mimed pulling at his hair and bugging his eyes out. Stan had to snort. 

"I'm gonna talk to him." He headed for the stairs, stopping to say hello to Kyle's parents before he did so. It wasn't unusual for Stan to drop by, so he wasn't asked why he was there. Upstairs, he knocked at Kyle's door.

"Hey dude, it's me."

"Stan? This isn't a good time."

"Too bad," Stan replied as he opened the door.

"Jesus, dude, what if I was jerking off?" Kyle asked irritably. He was sitting on his bed, half hugging a pillow. 

"Then I guess I'd see your dick." He closed the door behind him and came to sit beside his best friend. "You seemed upset," Stan said softly. "I got worried." 

"I'm fine," Kyle said, looking anything but.

Stan smoothed the coverlet, sitting in silence. Kyle stayed where he was, a bundle of sticks held jaggedly together by sheer nerves. Eventually Stan put his arm around Kyle's shoulders. Kyle collapsed against him at once. 

"Is it your mom?" Stan asked softly.

"No."

"College?"

"No."

Stan worried his lower lip with his teeth. Here was dangerous territory, and the wrong move was likely to cause a blow up. But how long could they possibly go on with suspicions and half truths?

"Kyle," Stan started, "you know you're my best friend. I've known you forever. And I love you, dude. Nothing you ever do is gonna change that."

Kyle sighed and released his death grip on his pillow. "I. Stan, I'm really… I don't know, I'm just. I'm really fucked up, Stan."

"No you're not. Well, no more so than the rest of us." He jostled Kyle lightly. "You think Kenny is a well adjusted adult?"

Kyle shrugged, his face a study in tightly reigned misery. 

"Kyle… Is it. Look, I'm not gonna judge you, dude, nothing's gonna change between us."

Kyle looked at him, and Stan could almost cry at how fucking vulnerable he looked. "Dude, I." He stopped, Adam's apple working.

"It's sex, right?"

Kyle exhaled in a rush, expelling breath from all the way down in the bottom of his lungs. 

Stan wrapped his other arm around him, hugging him. Kyle turned, hiding his face against Stan's shoulder. "It's okay," Stan said softly. "It's okay, Kyle. It's guys, isn't it?"

Kyle made a strangled, sobbing sound deep in his throat and brought his arms up to hug Stan back. "Don't hate me," he whispered. 

Stan turned a bit so he could hug Kyle as tight as possible. "Never. Never, ever. You're my Super Best Friend."

"You knew."

Stan shrugged lightly, one hand rubbing Kyle's back soothingly. "I suspected. I tried to, you know. Let you know it was okay. I wasn't sure YOU knew, to be honest."

Kyle sighed. "Yeah. Well. I guess I wasn't, you know, sure. It was easier to just never think about it." 

"De Nile isn't just a river in Egypt, huh?"

Kyle snorted laughter, although he also sounded like he was crying. "My people didn't do so great in Egypt, Stan."

Stan laughed. "Hey." He pulled back, catching Kyle's gaze. "Hey. Nothing's changed. Not between you and me. Okay? I'm gonna help you, dude. I can listen, or whatever you need." 

Kyle disentangled himself to wipe at his eyes and sniffle. "Yeah. Yeah. Stan, I. Dude I don't know what I'm gonna do. My mom is gonna freak. I'm supposed to give her grandkids someday." 

"So you'll adopt."

"I guess." He studied his hands. "Stan?"

"Yeah?"

"I've. Uh. I've been. Hooking up with someone."

Stan's brows lifted. He hadn't been expecting that. "Oh," he said. "That's cool, though. Isn't it?" Considering Kyle's attitude, he had concerning visions of older guys and Grindr hookups.

Kyle shook his head, pushing a hand through his hair. "I'm fucked up," he repeated. When Stan went to protest he raised a hand. "It's not the. Gay. Thing." His throat worked again. "Sorry. I haven't, you know…"

"Said it out loud?"

"Yeah. It's not that. I'm scared of that, it's fucking terrifying, but I know it's not weird or wrong or whatever. That's not the thing."

Stan's eyebrows knit together. "So. What is it? Is it, like… an old guy?"

Kyle gave Stan a withering look, which actually did Stan's heart some good - it meant that his friend wasn't entirely beaten down. "No. Jesus. He's my age. It's just… kinda." Kyle stopped again, thinking. "Violent."

"Dude, like he's beating you?" Stan asked, alarmed. 

"No! No. It's not like that. God, no." Kyle's hands twisted together. "It's me." He looked up, green eyes turned to prisms by unshed tears. "Stan, it's me. I just let it build, and build, and he pushes me and pushes me, and then I snap and it's just so _hot_ \--" The words were just pouring out of him, like blood from a wound, and Stan reached for him, bewildered but wanting to comfort. "--and I can't help it, I want it so much, but it's fucked and it's d-dirty--" Kyle clung to Stan again, burying his face in his neck with a miserable cry.

Stan held Kyle, smoothing his hair, murmuring nonsense words, ignoring his own confusion for the moment. All that mattered was the fact that his closest friend was in pain. Kyle cried against him, huge wracking sobs that threatened to break him into pieces. 

Eventually he ran out of tears. Snuffling, eyes red, Kyle pulled away. "I got snot on your shirt," he said apologetically. 

"Don't worry about it." 

Kyle took a deep, shuddering sigh and grabbed tissues from beside his bed, holding the box out to Stan so he could mop up. He blew his nose a few times, breathing calming gradually. Stan waited until Kyle seemed more or less in control before he spoke again. “Has this been going on long?”

“No. Just twice, really. I. Uh. The second time was right before I texted you.”

Stan blinked. “Oh. Uhm. So.” He suddenly wished Kenny were there; Kenny knew how to talk about sex. “You can tell me about it.”

Kyle gave Stan a nonplussed look. “Seriously? You sure you wanna hear this shit?”

“I’m your best friend, dude. And you listened to me talk about the first time I had sex with Wendy.”

“I don’t think you tried to choke Wendy out and then had her call you a slut.”

“Uh. No.”

Kyle sighed and let himself fall backwards onto the bed. “The worst part is that it’s really good. I mean, I feel like shit NOW, but it’s because I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind, but… Jesus Christ, Stan, is this what sex is supposed to be like? Are you supposed to feel like your brain is melting?”

Stan flopped down beside Kyle, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah. At least, I think so. The first few times, I felt like I’d have done just about _anything_ as long as she let me… you know. I mean, I’d have crawled through broken glass.”

Kyle looked over. “I never understood it.”

Stan grinned. “Yeah, well. Now we know why. You just had to meet the right person. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you did.”

Stan found Kyle’s hand and held it tightly. “I don’t think you’re weird.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay, but I like you anyway.”

Kyle snorted and closed his eyes. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Maybe we should call Kenny.”

“Kenny likes girls.”

“I think Kenny likes anybody breathing.”

“Well. That’s good, at least.” 

Stan chuckled and nudged Kyle so he opened his eyes again. “Hey. I love you, dude.”

Kyle smiled softly. “That’s gay. But I guess I love you, too.”

They both looked back up at the ceiling, fingers tightly intertwined.


	6. I'm A Weirdo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys investigate Ping Pong's Pizzeria. Kenny's a detective, Stan means well, Kyle should probably get some anger management classes, and Cartman knows all about the heat of the moment.

Kenny McCormick was devastated. 

Ping Pong's Pizza Emporium was closed, having become the location of a police investigation. Nobody had thought to inform the staff, so Kenny only found out when he showed up for his shift. Spud, the meth smoking dishwasher, was standing by the police barricade and it was him that Kenny approached. 

"Dude, what the fuck is going on?"

"They arrested Frank," Spud replied, sounding dully shocked. 

"What?! For what, why?"

Spud shook his head. "Dunno. They told me we can't go inside. Fucking hell, man, none of em can tell me when we can go back to work. Jobs're fucked, man."

Kenny couldn't decide which piece of news he was more upset by. Obviously, losing his job would be a blow - his minimum wage was the only reason he had any kind of life. But Frank, arrested? He liked Frank. He was his boss, sure, but he was more than that, too. Frank was an adult he could trust.

"Fuck," he said aloud. 

At a loss for what to do, he wound up walking home. He could hear his parents screaming at one another from outside and he decided that going in through the front door would be inviting trouble. Instead he walked around the back and opened his bedroom window, crawling through it and dropping onto the floor inside. When it came to clandestine window adventures, Kenny was a pro. The only person to rival his skills was Cartman, who admitted to having years of experience breaking into Kyle’s bedroom.

Kenny was quite certain that Cartman legitimately had no idea how creepy that was.

Inside his room, Kenny went to his bedside table and pulled a baggie of weed and his grinder out. He sat on his bed with his pipe, resolutely ignoring the sound of shattering glass through the thin walls. He lit up and inhaled deeply, exhaling smoke in an acrid ribbon. He hunted around until he found his headphones and jacked them into his phone, putting them on and blessedly blotting out the worst of the noise.

He probably didn’t have a job to go back to, that was the reality. He didn’t have a car. He had some drugs, bad teeth, no future, and a younger sister who was destined for the same shitty life as he was. 

He had learned long ago that the world wasn’t fair, but knowing that fact didn’t actually make it hurt any less. 

Kenny sat and smoked a while before he remembered Stan’s voice. _Was the party at Ping Pong’s?_ Kenny sat up a little straighter, eyes not focused on anything, but his pulse picking up. Coach Ballzack’s daughter, missing after a party at the pizzeria. Then that Brent kid. And now Frank had been taken into police custody. 

“They think he did it,” Kenny muttered to his empty room. “They think he stole those kids, don't they?” 

The thought was ridiculous; Frank would never hurt a child. He hadn’t even been working the day the coach’s daughter had gone missing. Surely the police would see that, and in a few days things would be back to normal. 

Surely.

\--

“It started out here in South Park, Colorado, looking like an isolated incident. A man’s daughter went missing after a birthday party. But authorities now believe that at least sixty children were ritually abused by a pizzeria owner named Frank Perv.” 

The screen showed footage of Ping Pong’s Pizza Emporium, blocked off by police tape. 

“It was a group of local parents who alerted authorities to the atrocities allegedly occurring beneath the pizzeria. It has been alleged that Perv was the head of a Satanic cult, and that he was using his business as a trap for young sacrificial victims.

Here is local concerned parent, Randy Marsh, with details.”

Stan choked on his own spit. There, on the news, was his father in close-up.

“Satanists really do use blood, and they mix it with urine, and then they also use the real meat, the real flesh, this is what makes Satanism true, this is what they do!” Randy said. “And we, the parents of South Park, we say no more! You get your blood and urine elsewhere, mister! We’re onto you! IT’S ALL ON TIKTOK, PEOPLE!”

Stan groaned and covered his face with his hands. “No,” he said to nobody in particular. He was just negating the universe. 

“Oh, yes,” Kyle said grimly. He took his phone back, turning the footage off. He, Cartman, Stan and Kenny were all back on the bleachers, although this time it was lunch. 

“Your dad cost me my job, dude!” Kenny said. There was genuine venom in his voice, which was a rarity. 

“I didn’t know!” Stan said. “I mean, I knew he was into some weird bullshit conspiracy shit but I had no idea he was gonna…”

“Rally a bunch of adults to do something stupid?” Kyle asked dryly. “Because we’ve never seen THAT happen before.”

Stan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kenny,” he said. “Dude. I’m so sorry.”

“Kenny isn’t the one sitting in a jail cell,” Kyle pointed out. 

“Frank would never hurt kids,” Kenny said vehemently. “They can’t possibly convict him of this dumb bullshit.”

Kyle frowned. “Well… Probably not. But this might ruin him anyway. It’s basically the McMartin Preschool trial all over again.”

Stan lifted his eyebrows at Kyle, and Cartman snorted. “Kyle Broflovski, attorney at law,” he drawled.

“Shut up, Cartman. So this was back in the eighties, and basically there was this preschool and this one overbearing mom was convinced her kid was being abused because his butthole was red - I guess she checked his ass a lot, and-- SHUT UP CARTMAN DON’T EVEN START.”

Cartman closed his mouth and mimed zipping it. 

“Butthole?” Stan prompted.

“Right, Anyway, she figured it was this teacher. So the place gets investigated, and the whole thing winds up snowballing until they got these child psychologists and shit who asked the kids all these weird leading questions. It was like… the eighties were really wild, you guys, there was a bunch of people who thought playing Dungeons and Dragons was going to get you into black magic and shit,”

“No, it just keeps you from getting laid,” Kenny pointed out.

“I _like_ Dungeons and-- nevermind,” Kyle went on. “The media ran with it. So the whole country went kinda batshit for a while and started saying there were these groups of Satanists behind everything and that they would steal kids and make them eat babies and they could fly and they travelled under secret tunnels and stuff.”

“That’s exactly what my dad was saying,” Stan said with dismay. “He keeps showing me these videos on TikTok of people pointing at like… holes in the ground, saying that’s where a tunnel is, or piles of dirt saying it’s a mass grave. But they never prove it, they just point at some stupid bullshit and expect you to believe it.”

“I’ve been working at that place for months,” Kenny said, annoyed. “If there was a secret tunnel I’d have found it while I was hauling grease around, I’m sure of it.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. “You think if we can prove that, maybe we can clear Frank’s name?”

“Can we all agree that a guy named Perv should probably have never worked with kids in the first place?” Cartman asked mildly. “It’s just bad optics.”

Kyle shrugged. “We could try. In the McMartin case, they were found not guilty, but they lost their business. Other places, the same shit happened and people actually _did_ go to jail for years. And this was all without physical evidence to back anything up.”

“Jesus,” Kenny said, digging out his lighter. 

They were silent a while, until Cartman stretched and yawned. “Well,” he said. “Obviously we need to break in.”

“The cops have it all closed off,” Kyle pointed out, frowning. “It’s an active crime scene, we can’t just walk in.”

Cartman gave Kyle a withering look. “That’s why I said _break in_ , you ginger fuck. We just need to get in through a window.”

“Hah! Like you could crawl through a window, fatass!” 

Kenny bit back a laugh. “Uh, Kyle,” he started. 

“Besides which,” the redhead went on, “it’s illegal? Hello?”

Cartman snorted. “Oh come off it, Kahl, we all know your morals are easily swayed when you’re convinced you’re in the right.”

“They are not!”

“Didn’t you get your brother’s home country bombed once?”

Kyle sputtered, face going red. “I was ten!” 

“You did agree to that whole fake ransom scheme the year before last,” Stan pointed out. “That was pretty fucked up.”

“That was Cartman’s idea!”

“Exactly.”

Kyle fell silent, seething. Cartman grinned at him. “Face it, Kahl, I’m a great influence on you,” he said before clapping his hands together. “Right. I’ve got the gear we’ll need. Hippy, Firecrotch, Kinny - wear black tonight. And sneakers. For sneaking.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “God, I hate you,” he said. 

“I hate you, too, Kahl. We’ll rendezvous at my place at twenty-three hundred hours tonight.”

“You’re seriously going to do this?” Stan asked, sounding dubious.

“I’m seriously, Stan. Don’t pussy out on us, and if you tell your dipshit dad I’ll kick you in the nuts.”

Kenny tossed his cigarette away. “I’m in,” he said decisively. He grinned at Cartman. “Thanks, dude.”

“Pfft, like I’m doing it for you, poor boy. I just want to break in and steal all the game tokens.” 

Stan shook his head. “I’m in,” he said. “Eleven o’clock. Kyle?”

Kyle looked at the sky and his shoulders sagged. “I’m in,” he said, sounding like he was headed to the firing squad. 

The lunch bell sounded, and the four of them stood up to head back to the school building. “Oh,” Cartman said as soon as Stan and Kenny had started off the bleachers. “Daywalker. Here.” He reached into his bag and pulled out Kyle’s hat. “You’ll have to cover your head tonight,” he said, holding it out. “If anybody sees that mop they’ll ID you for sure.”

Kyle took his hat back, one eyebrow lifted. “Thanks.”

“I wouldn’t bother putting it on now, if I were you,” Cartman continued as he clambered down off the bleachers.

“Oh yeah?” Kyle asked, falling into step beside him as they walked back. 

“Yeah. It's super ugly. Might as well just let your scalp breathe for the rest of the day."

Kyle turned his hat over in his hands, looked at Cartman, and half smiled. “I don’t want to scare anybody with my, what did you call it once? ‘Ronald McDonald Jewfro.’”

“Fuck em if they can’t handle it.” Cartman paused at the school doors. “See you at twenty-three hundred hours. Don’t let your bitch of a mom catch you.” He slipped inside, disappearing into the sea of students and leaving Kyle looking after him.

\--

11:30 PM.

The boys had met at Cartman's house as promised, finding the man himself outside, dressed all in black. There were a couple of backpacks in the back of a dark blue pickup truck that nobody recognised. When questioned, Cartman would only state that it was 'borrowed' in order to keep them from being caught. For once, nobody argued with him. 

Now they were around the rear of the pizzeria, by a window that Kenny assured them opened up on the staff bathroom. 

"It's never locked," Kenny said. 

Stan studied the window, which was high up and swung inwards. "So, we just have to figure out how to get up," he said quietly. 

Cartman snorted. "I'll boost you. Kenny, get over here, you first."

Kenny didn't hesitate, just bounced over. Cartman bent at the knees and and laced his hands together, boosting Kenny up when he stepped on them. Kenny scrambled up the wall, hauling himself up and shoving the window open at nearly the same time. He fell through the opening, but a moment later he hissed, "I'm okay!"

"We're going to pass the bags to you," Cartman whispered, motioning for Kyle, being the tallest, to do so. Once the bags were inside, Cartman boosted Stan, and then turned expectantly to Kyle.

"How the hell are you going to get up?"

"Don't worry about it, I've scaled way higher. Now get your bubble butt in there before we're caught."

Kyle didn't need the boost so much for height as he did support, and soon he was wriggling through the window. He dropped to the ground awkwardly and moved away. "All clear, fatass!"

There was silence, then the sound of running, then solid thumps against the wall, and suddenly Cartman's hands were gripping the windowsill, hauling him up so he could get his forearms in. With no little shock, both Stan and Kyle realised that Cartman must be a hell of a lot stronger than he looked. 

Of course, he still got stuck in the window. 

"Oh for fuckssake," Kenny said, trying to laugh quietly. 

Cartman was too busy huffing and puffing and wiggling to yell at anyone, and after a tense minute he managed to force himself inside. He fell more than climbed down, helped considerably by Stan. "Shut up, Kenny!" he panted.

Kenny snickered and opened up one of the bags Cartman had provided. Inside were four flashlights, covered with black felt except for a small hole in the center. Stan raised his eyebrows and Cartman shrugged. "Less noticeable." He took a torch and the other backpack. 

"So, what exactly are we looking for?" Stan asked as Kenny opened the bathroom door and peered into the hallway. Everything was silent and deserted. 

"Secret passages," Kenny replied. "Well. The lack of them. Let's try the arcade first."

The four boys crept through the pizzeria, their muted flashlights picking out old arcade towers and games. Cartman got it into his head that the skeeball units might be hollow and enlisted Kyle to help him investigate. 

As they studied the closest wall, feeling for cracks, Stan looked at Kenny. "Hey, dude," he said. "I know it's not really the time, but like… Would you talk to Kyle about sex?"

Kenny gave Stan an incredulous look. "Uh, does Kyle _want_ me to talk to him about sex?" he asked. 

"Yes," Stan said, although he was keeping his voice low. "Look, he needs advice and I have no idea what to say. Just, I dunno. If it comes up naturally."

"Yeah, sure, I'll just carry a cucumber and a condom on me at all times." His grin faded at Stan's look. "Something happened, didn't it?" 

"Yeah."

"Holy shit, did he finally…?"

"Say he was gay? Yes."

Kenny let out a low whistle. "And you want me to, what? Give him pointers on giving head?"

Stan felt himself blush. "No! I mean. Maybe. I don't know. I'm just kinda worried, he said he had kinda hooked up with some guy but he made it sound really… like, hardcore."

"Broflovski's into rough sex? Damn. I'm getting half a chub, Stanley."

"Be serious!"

"I am!"

Over at the skeeball machine, Cartman and Kyle were arguing in hushed voices. Kyle was towering over Cartman as usual, fists balled at his sides, while Cartman crowded into his personal space to jab a finger at Kyle's chest. 

Kenny looked over at them, about to roll his eyes. Then, with an almost audible click, things slotted into place. Kenny's mouth dropped open in shock.

"Cartman's hickey," is all he said. 

Stan was about to ask him what he was on about when suddenly there was a heavy metallic thud in the darkness. Everyone fell silent abruptly, frozen. The noise was not repeated, and Stan let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. 

"That came from the theatre," Kenny said softly. 

Cartman slung the second pack he had around, zipping it open quickly and pulling out a crowbar. "Come on," he said, walking toward the theatre. Kyle was right behind him. 

"Why don't we get weapons?" he hissed. 

"I only brought tools! I have a box cutter?"

"Gimme."

Cartman sighed and fished it out, slapping it into Kyle's hand. The two of them squared up and moved forward. Kenny supposed he should take the lead, all things considered, but that just wasn't how their group generally worked. If there was trouble, Kyle and Cartman would want to beat it into submission. 

“I don’t like this,” Stan whispered.

“Me neither.”

The flashlights cut pinholes of light through the dark of the room, illuminating empty picnic style tables. Cartman wrinkled his nose. “It really does smell like piss,” he muttered. The rugs were the most likely culprit for the scent - they were a riot of faded neon squiggles on black, and Kenny had never once seen them shampooed during his tenure. 

Kyle stopped and held a finger to his lips. He lifted his chin at the theatre stage and Cartman readjusted his grip on his crowbar. They all stood perfectly still, ears straining. 

The shadows coalesced past the moth-eaten curtains on the stage, a womblike penumbra from which there could just barely be heard a mechanical whirring. Kenny felt all the spit in his mouth dry up as Kyle approached the stage, flashlight in one hand and drawn boxcutter in the other. He paused, and then climbed up on the old dry wood.

He knew that sound, Kenny realised. There was a louder clunking noise and his eyes flew wide open. “Dude, look out!”

Kyle whipped his head around, startled, and that’s when Ping Pong Possum lurched out of the blackness. The animatronic moved clumsily but with purpose - it raised one arm and brought it down. Kenny knew for a fact that underneath the mildewy fake fur, Ping Pong had a steel frame; he screamed when he saw the heavy limb deliver a glancing blow to Kyle’s skull. The redhead crumpled, sprawling on the stage. 

“Kyle!” both Cartman and Stan yelled nearly in unison. Cartman was up and on the stage before the ratty, jerking possum could advance much further, with Stan running and leaping up close behind. Stan bent down to gather Kyle into his arms while Cartman swung his crowbar at the robot’s head. It clanged off of its face.

“Ow!” Cartman yelped as the shock of the blow reverberated up his arm. He didn’t let go of his weapon, however, and swung it again, this time bringing it down on Ping Pong’s snout. Its steel teeth were gnashing horribly, and the whine of servos and motors seemed very loud.

Kenny hustled over to the stage, helping Stan lift Kyle down. The redhead was groaning, his eyelids fluttering. Blood had coated one side of his face. 

Kenny heard another familiar sound, this one the spasming, squealing of metal grinding on metal. “Cartman, the fish!” he screamed.

“What?!” Cartman asked right before Filbert Fish’s flapping fin swatted him off the stage with a crash. Filbert continued to seizure. He was, mercifully, stuck, unable to advance any further. Ping Pong, on the other hand, was coming for them.

“Back door!” Kenny cried, gesturing wildly toward the hallway leading to the kitchen. Stan was hauling Kyle along, the latter trying to help but mostly just vaguely pushing at the floor with his feet. Cartman managed to get up and blundered to Kenny, holding his side. The two of them ran after Kyle and Stan, who were halfway down the hall. 

The hall was a straight shot to the kitchen, where back past the freezers was the rear entrance used for deliveries. Kenny fumbled with the locks, his hoarse pants loud in his own ears. Although he knew that he himself would ultimately be fine no matter what happened, the same was not true of his friends. When he got the door open he nearly threw himself through it, holding it open for the other boys.

They spilled into the cold night air and Kenny swept the door shut. All pretense of stealth dropped; they bolted for Cartman’s borrowed truck. Kyle was more alert, able to move under his own power, although Stan did not let go of him entirely. 

“Hey! Hey, you, stop!”

Cartman hauled the door of the truck open while the other three leapt into the bed of the truck and flattened themselves down. The sound of gunfire broke the night into splinters. Cartman threw the truck into drive and peeled out of the lot to the shouts of the police officers standing guard. “Halt! Satanists!”

“I think we better hang on,” Kenny said. Stan and Kyle nodded grimly, both of them as pale as milk. There wasn’t much to hold on _to_ , but they tried.

The truck sped down the road, the sound of sirens starting up in the distance behind them. Cartman took a swerving turn that had the three in the back swearing and praying, and then the truck was jouncing down a gravel road. Another nail-biting turn and the truck came to a halt in what was clearly a forgotten campsite. 

For a moment, the only sounds were the wind in the trees and the ticking of the truck engine as it began to cool.

Police sirens swelled in the air, grew… and faded. They’d gone right past the gravel road.

Cartman heaved himself out of the cab of the truck, throwing one meaty arm on the edge of the back as he looked in at his friends. “Hippy. Poor Boy. Daywalker. You okay?”

“Yeah, just think I fucking pissed myself,” Kenny said as he sat up. He unlocked the rear of the truck bed and hopped out. Stan did the same, helping Kyle to sit at the edge. Cartman elbowed him out of the way, peering at Kyle’s face. He took hold of it and pried one of Kyle’s eyes open.

“Cartman, what the fuck!” Kyle said, squirming and swatting at him.

“I’m checking to see if you’re concussed!”

“Fuck OFF, fatass, I’m fine!”

“Cartman’s right, dude,” Stan said. “We should get you to a hospital. Cartman, I think you should go, too.”

"I'm fine," he insisted. 

"Same," Kyle said petulantly. 

"You're both going," Stan replied. "You both got hit by evil fucking robots, I'm not going to just let you go home and go to sleep and possibly die after we escaped that shit."

"Evil robot mascots," Cartman said derisively. "What a lame Five Nights ripoff. That game fucking sucked. Fine. Get in the cab, losers."

\--

Truly, they all knew Hell's Pass Hospital far, far too well.

Kyle and Cartman were separated by a curtain in the examination room. Kyle was dismissed first, so he just hung back and waited. Cartman joined him soon after, and the two of them walked down the hall to the lobby where Stan and Kenny were waiting. 

"You got a concussion, Firecrotch?"

"Doesn't seem like it, but they told me not to sleep just in case and see how it feels tomorrow. Mostly my head just bled a lot. You?"

"Bruised ribs."

Kyle nodded, idly touching the bandage on his temple. "Hey," he said. He could see Kenny and Stan sitting on plastic chairs just past a set of automatic glass doors. "You haven't called me 'Jew' once today. What's up with that?"

Cartman stopped walking. "What, you miss it?"

"No. It's just weird."

"Only if you make it weird." 

Kyle crossed his arms across his chest and chewed his bottom lip. "It's because of what I said, isn't it?"

"See, this is how you make it weird."

"It's already a little weird."

Cartman shrugged. His skin was lightly flushed. "So avoid me."

Kyle sighed. "I can't. You know that I can't." He turned and walked to the lobby, not looking around as the door swung open.

\--

"There they are," Stan said. Through the glass door Kyle and Cartman were clearly visible, walking down the hallway toward them. When they both stopped, faces serious, Stan frowned. 

"And there they go," Kenny said softly. Stan looked at him. "Dude," Kenny said. "You get it, right?"

"Get what?"

"It's Cartman."

Stan raised his eyebrows and shook his head lightly, not understanding. Kenny sighed. "Kyle's guy. It's Cartman. They're fucking."

"No," Stan breathed. He looked over, and there was Kyle, walking through the door. Cartman trailed behind, hands jammed in his pockets. 

"Hey, dudes," Kyle said, offering a smile. "We're okay."

"Great," Kenny said, bouncing to his feet. "Let's get out of here."

Stan opened his mouth to agree, but instead blurted, "You're fucking Cartman?!"

The only sound was Kenny's hand slapping his own forehead. 

"Jesus, Marsh," Cartman drawled. He sounded completely unbothered. "I understand that Testaburger isn't balling you on the regular, but don't let your sexual frustrations force ME into your weird ass fantasies." 

He headed for the front door, shoulders relaxed. Kenny followed, eyebrows knit together. Stan looked at Kyle, who appeared to be frozen in place. His skin was beyond pale - under the fluorescent lights it looked paper white. 

"Dude," Stan said softly.

Kyle pushed past him, suddenly scowling, stomping out the hospital exit. Stan walked after him, feeling lost. 

Outside, the cold air cut through the mental fog somewhat. Cartman was waiting by the truck, apparently _not_ about to leap into it and strand the rest of them there. Kenny stood nearby, digging cigarettes out of his jacket. 

"Dude," Stan tried again. 

Kyle whirled on his heel. His face bore an expression that Stan recognised well, but it was one not usually directed at _him._

"What?! What, Stan? You got something to say?"

"No! I mean. I just…"

"Marsh, leave the ginger alone," Cartman called over. "I wanna go home."

"I'm not--" Stan began, frustrated. 

"Not what? Not shooting off your fucking mouth?" Kyle snapped. 

"No! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say anything, but Jesus, I don't _care_ you guys! I mean, I care, but I don't… You know…"

"I don't know!" Kyle shouted.

"I don't care that you're fucking!"

"Marsh, shut the fuck up!" Cartman roared. 

"Oh, lord," Kenny muttered, rubbing his forehead. 

Kyle let out an inarticulate scream and threw himself at Stan. The two of them grappled for a moment and then Cartman was pulling Kyle off, and Kenny was stepping between them, telling them to _chill_ , goddammit, chill.

"Kyle! Stop it!" Cartman's fingers dug into the scant flesh of Kyle's upper arms as he swung him about, looking up into his face. "Stop!"

Kyle's struggles lessened, and the flat murder in his eyes faded. He was breathing hard, his face pale except for patches of hectic colour high on his cheeks. Without another word he backed up, turned, and went to Cartman's truck. He got inside and slammed the door. 

Kenny looked at Stan, then at Cartman. "Take him home," he said. "Stan and I will call a cab. Right, Stan?"

Stan nodded. He felt as if a tornado had touched down without warning. Cartman looked at him evenly, then shrugged before heading to his vehicle. The engine roared to life and drove off, leaving the parking lot all but abandoned. 

Kenny looked up at the stars. "You're paying for the cab, dude."

\--

It was Asia. Heat of the Moment. Kyle turned the music off halfway through the chorus. Cartman, who had been singing along, trailed off.

"Killing my vibe, Kahl."

Kyle folded his arms across his chest and slumped down in his seat with a grunt. Cartman stayed quiet for a moment, but then just resumed where he'd left off. 

"The heeeeeeeeat of the moment, showed in your eeeeeeeeeeeeyes…"

"Goddammit, Cartman! Shut up!"

"Damn, Daywalker, calm down."

"I am calm!"

A snort. "That's convincing."

The silence spun out, fragile as spiderwebs. 

"Why'd you stop me?"

"Because if you split the hippy's head open we'd have to go back into the hospital and I didn't wanna do that."

Kyle looked out the window, face drawn. After a few minutes he rolled the glass down, shifting to stick his head outside. Cartman glanced over, then back at the road. When Kyle pulled his head back in, his cheeks were wet. "Pull over," he croaked.

Cartman did, driving onto the shoulder close to the edge of the woods. He cut the engine and looked over. 

"Are you going to run off and live in the forest?" he asked curiously. "Become a Bigfoot? But ginger and circumcised."

Kyle scoffed, half chuckling in spite of himself. "Yeah, I'm going to build a home for all the birds and squirrels."

"Sounds fucking weak, dude."

"I dunno. I won't have to go to law school. I can frolic with all the other gay Bigfeet."

"Bigfoots. Not Bigfeet."

"Fuck off, it could be Bigfeet."

"Nope."

Kyle scrubbed at his face. "I told Stan. Not that it was you. Just. That I'm into guys. And apparently beating the shit out of dudes I want to sleep with. Which is kind of fucked up of me, but here we are."

Cartman snorted. "Like you'd win. I could kick your ass."

"Replace the word 'kick' and then we're talking."

"Kyle, you dirty girl."

Kyle laughed and pushed his hands through his hair. "Don't call me a girl." He let his hands fall to his lap and looked at Cartman helplessly. "Dude. What do we do?"

"The fuck do you mean?"

"I mean…"

Cartman rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ, you're such a pussy sometimes. So Stan and Kenny found out you have great taste in men. Big whoop."

Kyle stared at him. "You seriously don't care," he said wonderingly. "You're just completely fine with them knowing that we…"

"Kyle, could you shut the fuck up?" Cartman sounded torn between exhaustion and annoyance. "I don't care what Marsh thinks. I never have, I never will. Kenny's the last person to judge anybody, so why would I worry about him? The only person whose opinion I give a fuck about is the person who is gonna be sucking my dick in about twenty minutes."

Kyle's lips twitched at the corners. "Awfully sure of yourself."

"My dear, simple Jewrat, you were pissed enough to nearly knock out your life partner. Now we're alone. You're going to want to work out all of that aggression, and you know goddamn well I'm the only one who can take it."

"See, you were doing so good with reigning in the Jew shit."

"Yeah, but it makes your left eye twitch and I love it."

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, well, there’s other ways to piss me off that aren’t fucking racist. What else do you love?"

Cartman held up a hand. "Let me see," he said. "Could it be the fact that you don't know everything and when I prove it it's oh so satisfying?" He ticked a finger off. "Oh, or that you're the only person in this shitty town who can keep up with me?" He ticked off another finger. "Maybe…. It's your stupid fucking hair and your huge fucking nose," he said, quickly tapping his last two fingers. 

Kyle shook his head. "I must be concussed because I kind of want to kiss you right now."

Cartman grinned. "And you haven't even punched me yet."

Kyle leaned over, eyes half closed. He was aware that his heartbeat suddenly seemed very strong. "I don't _have_ to punch you, I don't think." He swallowed, then closed the distance to press his lips to Cartman's. 

It was different, without the threat of immediate violence. Less like a war that just happened to be fought with mouths. Sweeter. Kyle sighed when he felt Cartman's hand come up to touch his cheek, opening his mouth eagerly to deepen the kiss. 

It might have started more softly, but Cartman still kissed like he was intent on claiming Kyle for his own. It didn't take long at all for Kyle to find himself whimpering and straining against his seatbelt. Cartman tugged at his curls and Kyle finally pulled his mouth away, groaning. 

"You really like that," Cartman said, grinning. 

"I do," Kyle admitted. "I really, really do. I do it to myself, but it's better when you do it." 

"That statement could apply to a lot of things." 

Kyle snorted and pulled away, leaning back against his seat. "Take me home."

"Fucking cocktease," Cartman muttered, but he sat back and turned the key in the ignition anyway. 

The rest of the drive was silent aside from Cartman periodically singing under his breath. He pulled up on the street in front of the Broflovski's house and made an exaggerated mime of tipping a hat. "There you go, Miss Daisy. Safely home."

Kyle studied his hands a moment before looking up. His gaze was steady. "Come in with me."

"Dude, it's past two in the morning on a school night."

"The doctor said I shouldn't sleep," Kyle said stubbornly. 

Cartman sighed. "If Sheila fucking catches me…"

"She won't." He took off his seatbelt and climbed out of the truck, walking up his driveway without looking to see if he was being followed. When he unlocked his front door, however, he was aware that there was a presence behind him. 

The two of them snuck inside and up the stairs, only breathing easy once they were locked inside Kyle's bedroom. Kyle began shucking off his clothes, eyes on the ground. He left his underwear on and got into bed, where he looked at Cartman expectantly. Cartman stayed where he was a moment longer before sighing. "You don't have to stare, Jesus," he muttered. 

Kyle rolled over, looking instead at the wall. "I've had your dick in my mouth, stupid," he pointed out.

"That's different." The mattress sunk as Cartman crawled into bed, throwing an arm around Kyle's waist, his belly pressing against his back. He was silent a while, and when he did speak his voice was low. "You okay?"

"I guess."

"I didn't say anything to Kenny. For the record."

"I know."

"You want me to kill Marsh? I'll do it, Kyle."

"No! Jesus. Don't say that shit, I'm never sure if you mean it."

Silence. Then, "Eh. Sometimes. Not this time. He means a lot to you for some fucking reason."

"That was surprisingly honest."

"Yeah. Well. I'm exhausted, dude."

Kyle put a hand over Cartman's. "Why are you here?" he whispered. 

"Fat and ugly, remember? We're a pair."

"You realise you have tried to murder me before. A couple of times."

"Well, yeah. You were an annoying kid." 

"You also saved my life more than once."

Cartman shifted, holding Kyle a little tighter. "Duh. Nobody gets to kill you but me. I don't like people touching my shit."

Kyle looked over his shoulder. "Dude. That's fucked up."

"Are you seriously just realising that I might not be mentally stable? I thought you were supposed to be smart."

"You haven't tried to actively kill me in a few years, I guess I figured… I dunno. That puberty mellowed you out."

"No, Kyle, that's what antipsychotics do."

Kyle studied what he could see of the other boy, finally dropping his head back to his pillow. "I didn't know."

"That's because I don't tell people. They don't need to know. Same reason I'm not having some big gay coming out party."

"Now THAT shocks me. The chance to have an over the top event all about _you_? You could hire like… dancers and trapeze artists, and be carried in on the backs of a bunch of ripped underwear models."

"I think you're just describing what would have been your ideal bar mitzvah, Kyle."

Kyle laughed and rolled over, pushing himself into Cartman's bulk. Cartman hesitated a fraction of a second before wrapping him in a hug. "Don't want underwear models," Cartman murmured. 

"No?"

"Nope. Skinny little daywalkers suit me fine."

"Lucky for me."

"Damn right."

"Can we make out?"

"I dunno, can you not be loud? Experience thus far indicates no."

"Shut up and kiss me."

Snickering, Cartman shifted so he could do just that. Within a few minutes it became abundantly clear that Cartman's prediction about Kyle using him to relieve aggression was 100% correct - in spite of knowing that his parents were sleeping down the hall and his little brother literally next door, Kyle still found himself practically dry humping Cartman's leg while doing his level best to give him another hickey. 

“Jesus Christ, are you sure you’re not a vampire?” Cartman asked as Kyle closed his teeth on the soft flesh below his jaw and pulled gently. Never one for impulse control, he rolled so that Kyle was pinned beneath him, something Kyle seemed perfectly okay with if his grinding up against him was any indication.

“Dude, just…” Kyle sighed and wrapped his arms around Cartman’s neck. “Make me feel good.”

“I can do that.” Said almost too softly to be heard. He swallowed hard. “Yeah.” He captured Kyle’s mouth with his own, sliding a hand confidently down to dip inside Kyle’s underwear. He stroked him to completion, and if he pressed his mouth to Kyle’s ear and told him he was beautiful, what of it? 

Some assurances can only be made in the dark.


	7. Your Skin Makes Me Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ike is observant, Wendy gives some perspective, Cartman and Kyle have to actually talk to each other, and Stan still knows how to party like Bela Lugosi's undead, undead, undead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentlemen be doing things with their pants off. My goodness.

"I'm onto you."

Kyle pulled his head out of the fridge and regarded his little brother with both of his eyebrows raised. "Oh really?" he asked. He dug back into the fridge to grab a La Croix, an addiction that literally everyone he knew mocked him for. He bumped the fridge door closed and walked away, Ike following along after him. 

"Really."

"You've finally discovered that I am, in fact, an elite secret agent sent to protect you from the evil political machinations of Alberta. Oh no. My cover is blown!" Kyle flopped onto the living room couch. He was exhausted - he'd actually fallen asleep in calculus. 

"No. I know you had someone in your room last night."

Kyle froze for a second, can halfway to his lips. Only a second, though. "No, I didn't," he said. 

"Oh yeah? Then who was leaving at like six in the morning?"

"You must have been dreaming, Ike."

Ike shoved Kyle's legs off the couch so he could sit. He was only thirteen, average height and good looking in the rather nondescript way that all Canadians seemed to have. When it came to having a poker face he couldn't be beat, and he was currently staring at Kyle with an inscrutable expression. 

"What?" Kyle finally asked. 

"Kyle, I know you got in late, and I heard him getting ready this morning and climbing out your window, and I heard a truck drive away right after."

Kyle looked down. "Dunno what you're talking about."

"I'm not gonna tell mom. But if this is gonna be a regular thing, you gotta tell that fat fuck he's not allowed to steal all my maple cookies."

Kyle's head snapped up. He opened his mouth but all that came out was a croaking sound. He closed his mouth, feeling hot blood rush to his face, and tried again. "Goddammit, does _everyone_ know?!"

Ike leaned over and hugged his brother. Kyle didn't resist, just slung an arm around him and sighed.

"He's been after you as long as I can remember," Ike said. "But lately you've just been weird about it. That day at the mall, you were like my friend Peter when he had a crush on this girl in math class." He hugged Kyle tighter. "You got bad taste, dude."

"Guess so." He looked at the TV, which wasn't on and showed only the ghost of their reflections. "Do mom and dad know? That I'm. Uh."

"Totally gay?"

"Fuck you, Ike."

"I don't think they do. Mom's convinced there's no girls in South Park good enough for us, anyway."

Kyle snorted. "Yeah. She wants us to meet some nice girl at Synagogue who'll cook and is pre-med." 

"And instead you're dating a nazi."

"We're not _dating_ , we're… something. I don't know. And I don't know if he's a nazi, not really. It's complicated."

"It's always complicated with you."

Kyle couldn't really think of an argument against that. 

"Are you gonna tell em?"

"God, no."

"You'll have to tell them about the gay thing one day."

"I think I can realistically put it off until after law school. I'll just say I'm too busy to date."

Ike shook his head but didn't press. Kyle hugged him tight, then shoved him away. "Come on, mom and dad will be home soon. Wanna play something?"

"Yeah, I'll kick your ass at Call of Duty."

"You're on, buttmunch."

As he got out the controllers, Kyle realised that as annoying as it was that apparently everyone he knew had seen a giant rainbow aura around him for years, everyone thus far had reacted supportively. It was a relief, and he supposed it also meant he owed people more credit. 

Maybe it wasn't other people who had a problem with him. Maybe it was just him, fighting himself. And maybe, just maybe, he owed someone an apology. 

\--

The wrong brunette answered the door. Kyle's surprise must have shown on his face, because Wendy gave him an apologetic smile.

"He's just gone to the store," she said. "Come on in, I doubt you drove all the way out here for your health."

"Sure," Kyle said, moving inside. "Uhm. Sorry, I should have texted him first, I just kinda…" 

Wendy walked with him to the living room. Textbooks and notebooks were out on the table, and Netflix was paused. "He decided we needed snacks," Wendy explained. "He shouldn't be long." She sat on the couch, smiling. Kyle knew that some people really didn't like Wendy because she was fiercely outspoken, but Kyle had always felt she was a bit like himself. And both of them loved Stan.

"How are you? I feel like we haven't hung out in forever."

"Yeah," Kyle said as he took a seat. "Sorry. I've been busy with class and stuff. You know." Which she would - Wendy took several advanced courses, too.

"Yeah. You got all your college applications done in the fall, right? Which are you hoping for?"

"Uh. I mean. Harvard has the best law program, so I guess that. Stanford or Yale are okay, too. You still wanna go to Berkeley?"

She nodded. She was still smiling, but her eyes looked serious. "Very much. I was looking at the class schedules and they have some really interesting ones, really forward thinking. You'd probably like them, too."

Kyle shrugged. He hadn't looked at any courses at all, yet. Wendy's head tilted to the left slightly and her smile faded a bit. 

"Kyle? I know you're Stan's best friend, but I want you to know that I care about you as a person. If you need someone to talk to, I'd listen. And I wouldn't blab to Stan, either."

Kyle's throat suddenly felt too tight. Why was it so easy to be strong in the face of hatred and anger, but simple kindness undid him so completely?

"Yeah. I guess. Stan hasn't… he hasn't said anything?" 

Wendy shook her head. "Nothing specific. I know he's worried about you. He has some ideas about why you may be unhappy lately."

"Like what?"

"You want me to be honest?" When Kyle nodded she tucked her hair behind her ears and took a breath. "Sexuality. A week or two ago, he told me that he thought maybe you weren't quite heterosexual, and he was concerned because he knows how much pressure you feel from your family. And, well." She paused, considering how to go on. "And he worried you had no outlet to explore your feelings." She grinned. "Besides wrestling Eric Cartman."

Her grin faded by degrees when Kyle didn't reply. "Kyle?" 

"I'm having sex with Eric Cartman," he said. He was shocked by how normal his voice sounded. 

Wendy looked surprised, but not horrified. "How's that going for you?" she asked with barely a pause. Her eyes were interested and bright. 

"Pretty good," Kyle replied. It was so strange to be talking about it without feeling defensive. "It's… Wendy, are you sure you want to hear any of this? I don't want to… I don't like talking about it but I have to talk to someone and Stan and Kenny… you know…"

Wendy reached over and took Kyle's hands in her own. "You need to talk to someone, sweetie. I'd be honoured if you'd trust me with that. And I don't think it's gross. I had a crush on Cartman when we were kids, remember?"

Kyle laughed and squeezed Wendy's hands. "God, you did. For like a day." He shook his head. "I was gonna beat the shit out of him, and then it just flipped. It flipped, okay, it was hot, but it's starting to get… something. I don't know."

Wendy hummed softly. "You guys still fight?"

"Yeah."

"Are you hurting each other?"

Kyle flushed red. "Yeah. But not… punch in the face hurting. Other hurting. Uhm. Good hurting. Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry, Wendy, I'm a freak…"

"Shh, Kyle, no. It's okay. Sexuality is tricky, it's complicated. You're not a freak, you're just… kind of kinky." She smiled and Kyle felt himself relax a bit. 

"Thanks."

"That said, Kyle, I have to be serious with you: I worry the two of you might engage in toxic behaviour."

"Toxic?"

"You two are a little intense, and sometimes it's like you don't know when to leave one another alone. Cartman's obsessed with you, Kyle. But what I don't think anybody wants to tell you is that you're obsessed with him back."

Kyle blinked, shocked. He started to refute it, but realised that Wendy might have a point. "So you think we might… abuse each other?"

"Not even that. I just think if you plan to keep doing whatever it is with Cartman, you both need to make sure that you're getting something out of it besides hateful sex. Something positive. And Kyle… don't be together just because you think you can't be with anybody else."

Kyle took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I think we could," he admitted. "Have something positive. There's… Last night, he stayed when I asked him to. He stopped calling me 'Jew.' He… I don't know, Wendy. There's something, maybe, but there's so much that's confusing and I'm just. I'm so fucking scared of drowning."

"You won't." 

Wendy and Kyle both looked jumped. They turned to find Stan in the doorway between the living room and dining room. 

"You won't drown, Kyle," Stan said. He swallowed hard. "I won't let you."

Kyle let go of Wendy's hands and stood up. "Dude."

Stan put down the bag of snacks he was carrying. "Dude. I'm sorry, I came in the kitchen entrance, and…"

They hurried toward one another, meeting in the middle and hugging each other tightly, both apologising all at once. Wendy let them babble for a moment, before speaking up, "If you gentlemen would excuse me, I'm just going to take a quick walk so you can chat." She stood, and as she passed to get her coat she tip-toed up to kiss Kyle's cheek.

"We love you, Kyle," she said. 

They watched her go. "Stan," Kyle said softly, "you got yourself one hell of a woman."

"Don't I know it. And I guess you've got one hell of a mouth, because dude, Cartman's neck."

Kyle swatted at Stan, who started giggling. "Shut up!"

"That's what gave you away, man, Detective McCormick put it all together!"

Giggling too, Kyle kept swatting. "Shut up, shut up, you suck!"

"Isn't that y--"

"LALALALA!" Kyle sang as he went to drop back on the couch. He grinned as Stan joined him. "This is so fucking weird."

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

"We haven't even talked about nearly getting killed by robots last night."

"Well. That shit happens all the time. How often do I get to bug you about your love life?" 

"Point. But I warn you, if you do, I'll tell you about Cartman's dick."

"Very effective defense, dude."

Kyle leaned against Stan, who put his arm around him. "I love you, dude."

"I love you, too, dude. We still on for Saturday?"

Kyle turned to look at Stan sheepishly. "Uh. Can I raincheck? I kinda wanna… Cartman has a thing. I said I'd help."

Stan groaned, but he was smiling. "This is where I learn what it feels like when I ditch you for Wendy, isn't it?"

"Payback is a bitch, Stanley."

"So's Cartman. Yeah, dude, we're cool."

"Good."

"But don't make a habit of this."

"I make no promises."

They snorted laughter together, Kyle hanging off of his human life preserver. 

\--

All four boys didn’t get a chance to speak together until after school on Friday. As was becoming a habit, they sat on the bleachers out by the field. Kenny was smoking, brow creased, and Kyle was picking at his hangnails again. 

“So obviously there’s a mad scientist who killed a bunch of kids involved,” Cartman said abruptly. When the other three looked at him he shrugged. “Some guy who was a secret child murderer who had some kind of plan to cram them into robots for… reasons. And then they come to life and try to fuck you up for revenge.” 

‘That’s fucking stupid,” Stan said.

“I told you, Five Nights was a dumb fucking bunch of games.”

“This isn’t a video game, Cartman,” Kyle said, annoyed.

“Excuse me, you daywalking bitch, but you got knocked the fuck out by a _children’s animatronic_. That’s not stupid in itself?”

“There’s no evil scientist at the fucking pizzeria!”

“They could be haunted though,” Kenny mused before taking a long drag on his cigarette. “Frank said there was a ghost in the theatre.”

“That kid who died in the eighties?” Stan asked thoughtfully.

“Yeah. Got his arm ripped off and bled out.” Kenny sighed. “One of my least favourite ways to go.”

Stan and Kyle shared a confused look. Cartman snorted. 

“Okay, but that’s only one ghost,” Stan pointed out. “We were attacked by two robots.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” he said. This point was roundly ignored.

“I don’t think there’s a rule that ghosts can only possess one object at a time,” Kenny said.

“Nuh-uh, it’s one dead kid per robot,” Cartmanm insisted. "That's just ghost logic."

“Goddammit, Cartman,” Kyle growled before punching him in the shoulder.

“Owwwww!”

Kenny snickered. “Kyle, stop slapping your partner around.”

“Yeah, _Kahl_ , that’s domestic abuse.”

“It is not! Don’t joke about that, you fuck, it’s not funny!”

“I think it’s pretty funny,” Kenny said, grinning. Kyle didn’t think he could really argue with Kenny considering that his parents actually did beat each other up pretty frequently. He settled for frowning thunderously instead.

“I don’t know why I thought you two would change even a little bit,” Stan said, shaking his head.

“What, you want me to make violent love to him right here, Stanley?” Cartman asked. Kyle choked and nearly fell off the bleachers.

“Can we NOT talk about that, please?” Kyle asked once he’d recovered his balance and voice. Kenny mimed zipping his lips closed, but he was still grinning. “What seems more likely than ghosts is that someone was controlling the animatronics. That means that a) there’s some way that someone is watching the place and has some kind of remote access, and b) they’ve seen our faces.”

“Ah, shit,” Stan moaned. 

“So we have to go back,” Cartman said. “If they know who we are, the longer we wait the more time they have to plan a counterstrike.” He rubbed his chin, eyes narrowed. Kyle recognised this as his ‘planning something terrible’ face. It still inspired deep concern in him, although he had to admit that if Cartman knew about anything, he knew how to fuck people up. 

“They won’t be expecting us to come back so soon,” Cartman mused. “That is, assuming the J--ginger shithead is right about it being some kind of tech nerd Scooby-Doo villain.”

“I’m not convinced it isn’t ghosts,” Kenny said. “No offense, Kyle. But there’s more things on heaven and earth than dreamt of in your whatever. I don’t wanna get in there and find out it’s not Radioshack but some kind of demon. So we need to figure out how to fight a ghost.”

“Proton packs?” Stan asked, deadpan. Kyle rolled his eyes.

“No,” Kenny said. “Dude, are you still in with the goth kids?”

Stan made a face. “That was ONCE in like, third grade.”

“And that time Wendy dumped you in seventh grade,” Kyle pointed out.

“So twice.”

“And when she dumped you in grade nine. And that time in eleventh, when you thought she was cheating on you with Token--”

“Okay, shut up! God.”

Kenny flicked his cigarette away. “So ask em if they know anything about ghosts. See if they have books or anything we can borrow. You know they won’t talk to us.”

Stan sighed. “Okay, okay. Fine. I’ll text Michael tonight.”

“Gay,” Cartman opined. Stan made a face and shook his head at him. 

“Well, guess we’re not going anywhere until Stan gets some ghost hunting shit,” Kyle said, standing and stretching. “You guys want a ride home? I have my mom’s car.”

Stan shook his head. “Nah, I’m good - Wendy’s staying late for student council. I figure I’ll just hang out and surprise her.”

“Fucking lame,” Cartman snorted. 

“You’re just pissed you got kicked off the council for _rigging the election_ ,” Kyle said. 

“Whatever. Like I wanna plan dances and blow smoke up the principal’s wrinkled old ass.”

“You might be into that,” Kenny said, getting up as well. 

“Nah. I like em perky.” He grinned wolfishly at Kyle, who missed it because he was heading down the bleachers. Kenny cackled. 

“Are you coming or not, dickhead?” Kyle called.

“Christ, Kyle, you on your period, or what?” Cartman snapped as he got up. “Jesus.” 

Kenny jumped off the side of the bleachers, risking injury as always. 

“Cartman,” Stan said, and the bigger boy paused.

“Marsh, this better not be a gay-ass speech about protecting the ginger’s ass cherry,” he said.

Stan made a face. “No. Ugh, sick, dude. I was actually gonna say that I hope you guys work it out.”

Cartman gave Stan a darkly suspicious look, clearly waiting for the catch. “...okay,” he said once he figured out that there was none.

“Cartman, move your wide ass! We’re going!” 

"Ey! Calm down! Fuck!" he yelled back as he made his way down. Stan stayed where he was, watching as Cartman hustled to catch up to Kyle and Kenny, naturally falling into step beside the former.

\--

The car’s heat was on, and the radio was playing softly - one of Kyle’s Spotify playlists, which contained a lot more R&B than one might expect from a dorky Jewish kid from the middle of nowhere, Colorado. Not that he was paying any attention to the music, considering he was currently trying to get humped in the backseat. 

Cartman, on the other hand, apparently had opinions. 

“Jesus Christ, Broflovski, is this your fuck list?” he asked, one hand working under Kyle’s shirt. 

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Uh, everything?”

“What? It’s Emotional Oranges, dipshit, it’s _good._ ”

“I feel like I’m being seduced by Boyz 2 Men.”

“I’m so sorry it’s not the gayest pop music ever recorded or some sort of 80s power ballad shit,” Kyle growled. He sunk his teeth into Cartman’s neck. “C’mon, just…”

“Mood is gone,” Cartman lamented. He half sat up, grinning and shaking his head. “You can't possibly lay there and insult music that was foundational to the start of our relationship.”

Kyle rolled his eyes and tugged at Cartman’s shirt. “You could argue All-4-One did the most foundational song of our relationship, Cartman, and that’s just fucking sad.”

Cartman fluttered his eyelashes. “Kahhhhhhhhhhhhl. You remembered.”

Kyle threw his hands up and huffed, irritated. He lay there awkwardly against the back seat, unable to really sit up because most of Cartman was still pinning his lower half. “Of course I do, you humiliated me in front of a stadium full of people.”

“Yeah. Heh. That was sweet.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “Ugh. Let me up, we gotta talk about this relationship thing.”

Cartman made a face. “I changed my mind, I’ll fuck you into the seat now.”

Kyle slapped at Cartman until he moved and let him sit up. He smoothed out his clothes a little, although his jeans were still tented and that was a bit of a lost cause. “Look. I’ve been thinking about this.”

“Kyle, bad things happen when you think too much.”

“I usually wind up thinking too much because of something YOU did, Cartman. Technically this is no exception.” He sighed, shoving a hand through his curls. “After doing some talking, and some thinking, I think that we should stop with the whole… Me trying to beat you up and then making out with you thing.”

Cartman looked at Kyle, his expression perfectly blank. “Your loss,” he said with a shrug, a smirk forming on his lips. “Now, I can't promise that when you change your mind I’ll still be available, Jew. Lots of people would give their left nut for a piece of this.” 

“Cartman, I didn’t say I was gonna stop seeing you,” Kyle said. The bigger boy stopped, looking at Kyle with narrow suspicion.

“Uh, yeah you did.”

“No, I said we weren’t gonna be all… toxic.”

“Toxic,” Cartman repeated, incredulous.

“Don’t make that face, I’m fucking serious.” He caught Cartman’s eye, holding his gaze steady. “The first time, you said it was hatesex. I don’t really think that's accurate.”

“Sure it is. I hate you. You hate me. We have sex. This is a win-win situation, Kyle.”

“You stopped calling me Jew.”

“Uh, pretty sure I _just_ did, actually,” Cartman pointed out.

“Yeah, and you did it because you thought I was dumping you.” 

Cartman scowled. “Did not.”

“Shut up, dumbass. You stayed with me after the hospital.”

“Yeah, so I could touch your dick.”

Kyle threw his hands up, exasperated. “Goddammit, Cartman!” he shouted. “Why are you so determined to be an asshole?”

Cartman sat there, silent. He dropped his gaze. “I don’t know how else to be,” he said finally. Kyle stared at him, for once at a loss for words.

“Okay,” Kyle started after a lengthy pause. “I just want you to be honest, dude. You don’t gotta… deflect so hard.”

Cartman looked up at him, stare intense and calculating. “If I’m honest, you gotta be honest too,” he said in a low voice.

Kyle found himself swallowing hard. “Okay,” he said. “That’s. Rule number one. We’re honest with each other.”

“Fine. Rule two, we don’t have to have these gay ass talks all the time.”

“Deal. Rule three: no more Jew shit. I’m serious, Cartman. It hurts.” He couldn’t believe he finally admitted that fact - telling Eric Cartman that he’d struck a nerve was like throwing chum on yourself and diving into a shark pit.

“Breaking my balls, Kahl.” Still, he looked thoughtful. 

“Yeah, yeah. Rule four: we’re gonna learn how to, uh. If we’re gonna hit each other, we gotta…”

A slow, salacious smile spread across Cartman’s lips. “Ohhhh, Kaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhl,” he purred. “You dirty girl. You want to explore your less than vanilla side? Guess it’s safewords and riding crops for your birthday.”

Kyle groaned and hid his burning face in his hands. “I take it back, I hate you.”

“I hate you too, Kahl.” The grin was audible in his voice. “Rule five: some things stay between us. I know you love to tell your fucking life partner everything, but I don’t need Marsh all up in my shit.”

“Alright, that’s fair.” He shifted, moving closer to Cartman and holding his hand out. “Deal?”

Cartman studied his hand and then shook it, hard and brisk. “Deal. Honesty, no Jew jokes, lots of kinky shit, and no hippies butting in.”

Kyle snorted laughter. “I think you vastly overestimate how much Stan actually wants to hear about what we get up to, dude.” 

“No way, I know he’s hard for this shit. Who wouldn't be?” He squirmed forward, lips finding Kyle’s neck. Kyle wriggled slightly, mind ticking back over all Wendy had said.

“Hey, Cartman? You’re not just… I’m not just the best you could get, am I?”

Cartman stopped dead and then pulled back. His expression warred between genuine shock and indignation. “I can’t figure out if you’re insulting me, or yourself,” he said at last.

“Alright, that did sound really bad now that I think about it. But I was insulting myself.” Kyle shrugged. "Look, it's just... what we said before. Fat and ugly, right? So I thought... I dunno. Maybe you're settling for ugly." He hated to say it aloud, and his cheeks burned with shame and anger. Kyle risked a glance at Cartman and saw that the bigger boy's eyes were blazing. 

"Fuckssake, Kyle." Cartman brought both of his hands up to cup Kyle's face, not exactly gently. "I'm gonna tell you something," he said in a low voice. "You ever tell anybody I said this, I'll deny it. You ever bring it up, I'll kick your ass." He took a deep breath, and his exhalation was shaky. "I don't want anybody else. I haven't wanted anybody else in forever, and never as much. Just you. It's always just _you_." The fury in his voice was undercut severely by how tired he sounded. "I hate you so much for that, Kyle. You don't even know."

Kyle pulled Cartman's hands away from his face. "It's okay," he said. He slipped his arms around Cartman's thick neck. "It's okay. I want you, too." He turned his face to press it against Cartman's skin, mouthing his pulse gently. "It's okay, Eric."

Cartman winced as if struck before wrapping his arms around Kyle and pushing him down against the back seat. "Say it again," he whispered. 

"Eric?"

"Yeah. It's weird."

"Only if you make it weird."

Cartman snorted, big hands running up Kyle's thighs. 

"Eric," Kyle said again, tasting the name on his tongue; a strange wine. "Show me you hate me, Eric."

Cartman might have been laughing but it was hard to tell when he was pressing Kyle down and kissing his neck. “I hate you,” he said in between kisses. “I hate you. I _hate_ you.” He slipped one of his hands up over the front of Kyle’s jeans and squeezed. Kyle groaned loudly. Cartman bit lightly at Kyle’s ear. “Hey. I know you said no Jew shit, but do I gotta stop calling you anything, you know… ‘problematic’?” Kyle could hear the quotation marks.

“No,” Kyle muttered. “No, you don’t gotta. I, uh. Kinda…”

“You like it. Kyle, you fucking slut.”

Kyle made an indignant noise and let his head thump against the car seat. “I hate you,” he groaned. 

“Yeah, I hate you too, you thirsty bitch.” Cartman was grinning; Kyle could feel it against his throat. “Now seriously, let’s see if I can eat your ass back here.”

Kyle twitched and tried to sit up. “Cartman! This is my mom’s car! You’re not eating my anything!”

“Then why the fuck did we park here if you weren’t trying to get dicked?!”

There was a point. Kyle sputtered, at a loss, and Cartman cackled and shoved his hands up Kyle's shirt. His short nails scratched over Kyle's chest, making Kyle hiss and rock his hips up. Cartman pressed his smirking lips to Kyle's, soon after demanding more tongue, something Kyle was happy to oblige. He hooked a leg around Cartman's thigh and pulled, hips rolling up.

"You want it bad," Cartman murmured. "Don't you? Say you want it."

Kyle sighed, head lolling. "I want it, yeah." He whined softly as their bodies rocked together. "I want _you._ "

"Yeah," Cartman muttered, pulling back a bit. "Take your pants off."

"You have to get off of my legs, fatass."

"Oh, I can't rip on you, but you can make fun of my weight?"

Kyle shook his head. "No! Okay, for one thing, YOU were being fucking racist. For another…" He trailed off, frowning. "Ah, fuck. I'm sorry."

Cartman sat up and moved so Kyle could extricate himself. He was quickly deciding that car sex was a lot more awkward than he'd expected. 

"You're sorry." Cartman’s voice was flat with disbelief. 

"Yeah. I don't wanna hurt your feelings, dude."

Cartman snorted. "Like you could." The lie was obvious, but so was the reason for it. 

Kyle unzipped his jeans and pushed them and his underwear down, gesturing for Cartman to do the same. "I like your body," Kyle said, aware that he couldn't get his pants off without taking off his shoes, and that his bare ass was now on his mom's car seat.

Cartman was looking at him, guarded, not entirely believing. Kyle reached for him, hands petting over his shoulders and chest. 

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Dude, you're big."

Cartman grinned. Kyle rolled his eyes, but had to bite back a smirk. "Huge," Cartman agreed. 

"Uh huh." Kyle nuzzled into the side of Cartman's neck. "I'm a lot smaller than you, dude."

"Aside from being nine feet tall."

"Dude, I'm trying to be seductive here, I was gonna say, oh, don't hurt me, and shit."

Cartman guffawed. "Considering YOU'RE the one who always throws the first punch, Kyle, I don't think I can buy that even in the context of sexy fantasy."

"Oh for… I can't believe I'm still hard, you're awful."

"Yup," Cartman agreed happily. He tilted Kyle's head back, pressing their lips together. Kissing Cartman was like being caught in quicksand - you'd be claimed and never escape.

 _All for me,_ Kyle thought deliriously as Cartman sucked at his tongue. _Just me._ His fingers dug into soft flesh and he writhed impatiently before he felt Cartman's hands slide down his back to grip his ass. With a grunt, Cartman hoisted Kyle onto his lap. Kyle nearly smacked his head on the ceiling of the car in the process, but he was being kissed and Cartman's hands were spreading his ass a little and that was definitely a new, scarily arousing sensation. When he felt one of Cartman’s thick fingers slip between his cheeks he hid his face in Cartman’s neck and made a strangled sound.

“It’s cool,” Cartman assured him. His other hand moved, slipping to encircle Kyle’s cock and stroke. “Relax, I’m not gonna hurt you.” Which was surreal coming from _Cartman_ of all people. Still, Kyle tried to do just that, exhaling shakily only to suck his breath back in as he felt Cartman’s finger circle his hole. He whined, feeling a hot, electric pleasure from both sides of him. He might split in two from it.

Cartman put his ear to Kyle's ear. "There you go," he whispered. "Feels good, right?"

Kyle nodded, hands clawing mindlessly at Cartman's back and shoulders. Cartman kissed the skin behind his ear. "Look at you, you really want it, you just want me to fuck you so hard…"

"Hngh," Kyle managed, hips rocking quickly. Cartman's hands were firm, steady in their movements. Kyle wanted more; was terrified of getting it. 

"You're filthy, Kyle." Cartman sounded winded, and Kyle realised he could feel how hard he was beneath his thighs. He wished he'd gotten his pants off properly so he could straddle him instead of sitting side-saddle. Still, he spread his legs a bit, feeling Cartman's leaking cock slide between them. His entire body was screaming for release. 

"Kyle," Cartman murmured, breathing harder, hips rolling as he continued to jerk Kyle and rub between his asscheeks. Kyle clung to him. "Kyle, you're so fucking perfect, come on, come for me, wanna fuck you so bad…"

Kyle's fingers dug into Cartman's flesh and his hips surged up. He cried out against soft skin, every thought in his head eclipsed as he came. Cartman stroked him through until he whined. Sticky, gasping shallowly, Kyle ground down against him. Cartman moved both hands to Kyle's hips, holding him tight. 

"You're gonna fuck me so hard, Eric," Kyle whispered against Cartman's neck. He rocked his hips hard and fast, squeezing and relaxing his thighs. "I want you to, to fucking fill me, you feel so good." He wasn't surprised when Cartman gripped him hard enough to hurt and shuddered soon after, wet heat spurting up all over Kyle's thighs. 

They held each other for a moment, panting. Finally Kyle pulled away and gestured at the front seats. 

"There's baby wipes in the glove compartment. And hand sanitizer."

"Such a romantic," Cartman said as Kyle awkwardly got off of his lap and leaned over the console to get to the glovebox. "Your ass is right in my face, Daywalker, I could totally eat it."

Kyle snorted and moved back. He didn't sit, but even more awkwardly grabbed a wipe out of the little plastic bag and wiped come off of the back of his thighs before getting between them. He offered the pack to Cartman, who mopped himself up. He made a face when Kyle shoved the hand sanitizer at him. 

"You touched my asshole," Kyle said insistently. He was blushing furiously. "It's fucking unsanitary."

Cartman rolled his eyes but obliged. "Alright, princess."

Kyle yanked his pants up and sat back down, looking at the ceiling of the car while Cartman got himself dressed. He didn't flinch when Cartman dropped his head against his shoulder. It felt… nice.

"You still want me to help film tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah, but I know you have your gay ass date with Stan, so just tell me when that is so I can tell Butters what we need to do."

"Actually, I canceled with Stan."

Cartman blinked, surprised, before settling into a smirk. "The power of my dick compels you."

"No, dumbass, the power of your… uh…"

"The power of your unbridled passion for me, Kahl? The power of burgeoning romance?"

"Shut the fuck up, what do YOU know about romance?"

"Oh, you'll find out," Cartman chuckled, and Kyle felt genuine terror. He'd almost forgotten that he was with someone who firmly believed in grand gestures. 

"Ugh."

They sat together in companionable silence, and Kyle realised that at some point their fingers had intertwined. It was strange and a little frightening to experience something so soft.

Cartman was humming, so quietly that it was hard to hear. When he began to sing, his voice was low. "...for better or worse… 'til death do us part…"

"Cartman, NO."

"I'll love you with every gay beat of my heart! IIIIIII SWEEEEAAAARRR!"

Kyle groaned and elbowed Cartman in the ribs, which did nothing to deter him. In fact, Cartman only sang louder, throwing an arm around Kyle and dragging him closer still. Kyle swore and struggled… but it was mostly for show.

He was smiling. 

\--

“Pure sensation...  
The beautiful downgrade...  
Going to hell again...  
Going to hell agaaaaaaaaaaaaaain…”

The guitars kicked in, giving the music a sense of gloomy urgency. One thing that could be said in favour of the goth kids’ music was that if they weren’t dancing to it they at least tended to play it at a reasonable decibel so that they could hear one another bitch over it. 

“Henrietta, one of your little friends is here!” Mrs. Biggle announced as she showed Stan to her daughter’s room, the source of the soft caterwauling. 

“GO AWAY MOM! _God_ , you’re always trying to ruin my life!” Henrietta rolled her eyes as her mother retreated, and looked at Stan. “What do YOU want, you wannabe jock conformist?” It was as if she had never met him before, in spite of his on-again off-again association with them over the years.

“Uh, hi guys,” Stan replied. He took one hand out of his jacket pocket and waved. 

“It’s cool,” Michael said from his spot on the floor. “I invited him.”

Pete grudgingly shuffled over, making room for Stan to sit on the rug. He did so, inhaling the scent of cloves and shitty coffee. 

“Did your head-of-the-pep-rally girlfriend dump you again?” Pete asked, flipping his hair out of his eyes.

“Uh. No. No, Wendy and I are fine, thanks. I called about, uh. Ghosts.”

“Ghosts,” Pete repeated, sounding as unimpressed as Stan felt.

“Yeah.”

 _You_ want to study the eldritch secrets of the dead?” Henrietta scoffed. “Please. Did you watch too much Harry Potter? Want to conjure up yourself a Moaning Myrtle? Ew.”

“Yeah,” Pete agreed, flipping his hair out of his eyes again.

Stan resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “No,” he said evenly. “Look, I’m pretty sure I know a place that’s being haunted, and I need to make it stop. I don’t know anything about ghosts and shit, but I figured you guys would.”

“Yeah,” Michael droned. “You said that much in your text. I wasn’t sure if you were serious.”

“I really wish I wasn’t, but I am.”

“What kind of haunting is it?” Henrietta asked, curious beneath her veneer of disinterest. “Poltergeist activity?” 

“Walls that drip blood?” Pete asked.

“The shattered revenants of a time long passed?” 

“The lonely screams of a soul trapped between heaven and hell?”

“Uh, possessed animatronics,” Stan said.

The goth kids sat silent, staring at him.

“Like some Five Nights at Freddy’s bullshit?” Michael asked. “Lame.”

“Super fucking lame,” Pete confirmed. 

“You guys, I’m serious!” Stan said, exasperated. “Look, weird shit is happening at the restaurant Kenny works at, and we broke in and nearly got killed by these fucking things, okay? And we gotta figure out what the hell is going on so he doesn’t lose his job.”

“Kenny McCormick?” Henrietta asked. 

“Yeah. Why?”

She shrugged, noncommittal. “I guess we could help you.”

“So why do you think it’s ghosts?” Pete asked.

“Because some kid died there, in the eighties. He got his arm ripped off and he bled to death.” 

“That’s pretty cool,” Michael decided. 

“Violent deaths tend to create ghosts,” Henrietta said. She got up and walked to her bookshelf. The outside of it was painted black, but Stan could see that parts of the inner shelving had flaked to reveal its original pink colour. Henrietta ran her fingers along the spines of the books there, finally grasping one that, unsurprisingly, had a black cover. The red text on the front read ‘NECROMANCY FOR BEGINNERS.’

“Here,” she said, returning and holding the book out to Stan. He took it, but he couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.

“Uh, can we really trust anything that you got from Amazon?” he asked.

“Amazon is far more evil than the pits of hell,” Michael pointed out.

“All the world’s deepest occult secrets are online anyway,” Pete added, tossing his hair out of his eyes. “You can read all of Crowley’s shit in PDF format for fuck’s sake.”

Stan wasn’t really sure how to argue with any of that, so he just turned the book over in his hands. Henrietta nodded at him. “It has, like, a how-to exorcism in it,” she said. “So if you really do have a possessed object, it should work to get rid of it.”

“Thanks,” Stan said. “I should get going, I gotta read this.” He stood up. “Thanks, guys. Uh, hey, saw The Soft Moon did a track with HEALTH, that’s pretty cool.”

“Whatever, poser,” Pete said, but Stan was pretty sure he had _almost_ smiled.

“Say hi to McCormick,” Henrietta said as she sat back down on the rug, picking up her book of poems.

“Uh, okay.”

“Hey, Stan?” Michael said as Stan reached the door. 

“Yeah?” he asked, looking back.

“Be careful. The angry dead always want company."


	8. A Perfect Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The secrets of Ping Pongs Pizza Emporium are revealed. Stan and Kenny get into some trouble, Butters really likes to dance, and Cartman kicks ass in heels.

"‘Exorcism is the religious or spiritual practice of evicting demons or other spiritual entities from a person, or an area, that is believed to be possessed. Religions from all over the world have their own variations on exorcism rites - Tibetan Buddhism has many elaborate ceremonies, and Jews have developed complex plans for coaxing evil spirits out of those who are possessed.’”

“Dude, does that mean we should wait for Kyle?”

“Don’t be stupid, Kenny, that’s something Cartman would say.” Stan cleared his throat and found his place on the page again. He’d put a bookmark in NECROMANCY FOR BEGINNERS that depicted a cartoon sloth with the legend “Let’s Hang Out and Read!” on it. He supposed he should have used something a little more devilish. 

“‘In Christian practice the person performing the exorcism, known as an exorcist, is often a member of the Church thought to be graced with special powers or skills.The Catholic Church lists guidelines for conducting an exorcism, and for determining when a formal exorcism is required, at which point a properly educated member of the clergy must be dispatched by the Vatican.

‘But if you can’t wade through the papal red tape, you can DIY at home!’”

Kenny, seated on Stan’s bed crosslegged like some kind of stoner Buddha, nodded. “That’s what we need,” he said. “And it has instructions?”

“Yeah, that’s what Henrietta said.” Stan looked over the book at Kenny. “She says ‘hi’ by the way.” The unasked question hung behind the words.

Kenny just kept looking at San expectantly. Stan rolled his eyes. “Dude, did you fuck the goth chick?!”

“Stanley. A gentleman never kisses and tells. Come on, keep reading, what do we need?”

Stan sighed and flipped ahead a little. “Uh, holy water, sage, and salt. Oh, and it says, uh…” He looked at a page where a drawing depicted a woman looking at a creature with tattered wings, long teeth, and a body like a young Arnold Schwarzenegger. The drawing was not well done, and it rather looked like the two figures were having a disagreement at the post office rather than squaring off in a battle between good and evil. 

“It says all we have to do is tell it to take a hike, basically,” Stan said. “‘Firmly ask the spirit to leave, avoiding anger or fear.’ It says, uh, being scared and angry might freak the spirit out.”

“WE might freak out the fucking death robots?”

“Yeah, I guess? Uh, it says. ‘Try out the Latin rites, as well: _Ecce crucis signum, fugiant phantasmata cuncta._ ’ Okay, so we’ll write that one down. ‘Let the spirit know that you mean it no harm, but that the physical world is not their place anymore. Assure them that the spirit world awaits them and they will be safer there. Remember, spiritual possession is not necessarily evil. Most spirits are simply lost, confused, or still clinging to life, and will leave when asked.’”

Kenny nodded slowly. “I mean… it’s possible, right? Maybe just nobody has talked to them since 1987.”

Stan looked dubiously at the book. He still wasn’t particularly sure that they ought to be hinging their survival on something that also contained an entire chapter on ‘picking hors d'oeuvres for your seance.’ Still, it was the best that they had, considering that the internet had a million start points and absolutely no way to tell what was legit. At least the book had gone through an editor, he supposed.

“Maybe. Man, I’m actually kind of hoping that Kyle’s right and it’s just some weird guy with a remote control.”

Kenny nodded and started patting his pockets down for a lighter. 

“Dude, if you’re gonna smoke you gotta go outside, mom has a pretty strict policy,” Stan said as he flipped ahead in the book. 

“And Randy listens?”

“Yeah, after she threatened to throw out his Bob Marley records.”

Kenny snorted and got to his feet. “If I’m not back in five, I’m with your mom.”

“Fuck you, Kenny.”

Kenny laughed as he headed down the stairs, ducking out onto the kitchen porch. From there he had a clear view of the Tegridy Farms barn, which had a pleasant glow about it from the heat lamps no doubt on inside. He reflected that it really was kind of funny that he himself regularly indulged in a product grown by Stan’s family. 

Lighting and inhaling deep on his cigarette, Kenny scanned the barren winter field for Randy. He didn’t see him, so he assumed he too must be inside the barn. Kenny started walking toward the barn without really planning to, half thinking he could see if he could score the friends and family discount. The closer he got to the barn, the more he realised that he could hear people talking inside. 

“...doesn’t have enough to convict…”

“Goddamn inept police force, that’s the problem.”

Kenny edged closer to the barn door, which was wide open. He peeked around the edge and wasn’t terribly surprised to see several of South Park’s adults seated on crappy folding chairs. More still stood behind those. What was most shocking in this little tableau was that Sheila Broflovski was _not_ present. Father Maxi was, however.

In front of the little semicircle of people was a whiteboard. There were barely coherent notes and diagrams drawn on it. There was also a poorly drawn rendition of what was presumably a possum with an inverted pentagram scrawled on its forehead. 

Randy Marsh, who Kenny had barely noticed, suddenly whapped a pointer on the whiteboard. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, ignoring the fact that about forty percent of his audience was female, “we’re through the looking glass here.”

“...what does that MEAN, Randy?”

“The police have Frank Perv in custody,” Randy went on as if he hadn’t heard anyone. “But my sources say that they have not been successful in forcing him to give up his associates. Perv is only the beginning - this is a conspiracy that stretches up to the uppermost echelons of society.”

A murmur from the little crowd. 

“We need answers,” Randy went on. “And Perv is the only one who can tell us how we can find our way into the ranks of the Alien Satanic Illuminati.”

“We need to interrogate the son of a bitch!” 

“Yeah!”

“And we absolutely _cannot wait!_ ” Randy shouted. “One way or another, this ends tonight!” 

Kenny shrunk back as more voices raised in anger. In no time at all everyone gathered in the Marsh’s barn was practically baying for Frank perv’s blood. Kenny felt his stomach go cold, the flesh on his lower belly actually prickling into goosepimples. This was not the first time he had seen South Park’s adults whipped up into a frenzy over something ridiculous, but this time the consequences of it were spiraling dangerously out of control with someone he cared about right in the centre. It was a _mob_ in that barn, and suddenly the idea of a lynching didn’t seem all that far out of the question.

Pitching his nearly forgotten cigarette away, Kenny turned and hurried back the way he had come.

Stan was still sitting on the edge of his bed reading when Kenny let himself back in. “Hey dude,” he started, but paused when he saw how pale Kenny looked. “You okay?”

“No,” Kenny replied simply. “Stan. we gotta try something _now._ Your dad is gonna rush the police station to try and beat up Satanists or something.”

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck,” he said. “Okay, okay… We should get Kyle and Cartman.”

“Dude I really don’t know if we have time. Come on, let’s just get the shit that book says we need and swing by the pizzeria. We can exorcise the robots, prove Frank’s innocence, and be back in time for dinner.”

Stan waffled, but then sighed. He grabbed his phone and sent Kyle a quick text ; he was good about checking his phone regularly so Stan had no doubt he’d see the message almost immediately and catch up with them as soon as possible.

“Right,” Stan said, thinking. “We’ll take my mom’s car. But before we go, we should fuck up the other ones parked out there.”

Kenny beamed. “Say no more, dude. I might not know much, but I know my way around a distributor cap. Come on.”

Stan grabbed his backpack and threw NECROMANCY FOR BEGINNERS into it before grabbing his mom’s car keys and following Kenny out the side door. He wasn’t particularly happy about what it was they were about to do, but he was even less enthused about the idea of letting his father get carried away (again) with some dumb idea of his. This wasn’t harmless anymore; a very real person was sitting in a jail cell all because he had the misfortune to be the easiest scapegoat around. There was no evidence for any of the nonsense Randy was spouting. There were no facts. It was just raw emotion and a spiraling paranoia born out of a sense of helplessness. 

It didn’t bring the missing kids back. It damn sure didn’t protect any others.

“Up to us, I guess,” Stan muttered. 

\--

“One two three UP, five six CROSS drop! See, Eric? Like that.” 

Cartman huffed, annoyed, but his eyes held a certain glint that Kyle recognised as a sure sign of his single-minded obsessiveness. He nodded at Butters, who repeated the steps one more time with a confidence that he would never display under other circumstances. Kyle supposed he really shouldn’t be surprised that Butters and Cartman combined was a formidable duo when it came to crafting a dance number, but somehow he still was. 

“Alright?”

“I got it, Butters,” Cartman half snarled. 

“And we’re rolling,” Kyle said. He had been made de-facto cameraman, considering that he knew nothing about dancing. 

Cartman - or Dixie Normous, Kyle supposed - was poured into the bright yellow dress they’d sewn, the painstakingly constructed purple coat floating behind him as he performed the steps Butters had shown him. Whether it was because he was pissed off at having to do them over again or something else, his honey brown eyes were positively blazing. Although he was no expert on such matters, Kyle personally thought that the added emotion was going to translate well to film.

They ran it again from the top one more time before Kyle nodded. “Okay, great! I think we got it. Uh, what was next?”

Butters thoughtfully handed Cartman a glass of water with a straw in it. “Fuck me, I’m sweating like a whore in church,” Cartman muttered. 

“You look great, Eric,” Butters assured him. 

Cartman handed the glass back and waved Butters off, looking at Kyle instead. “The chair,” he said decisively. 

They were filming in Cartman’s house, which was never NOT going to look like a house. Still, they’d done what they could with swaths of fabric and lights, and while it was a far cry from professional the whole set up at least managed to hit ‘public access music video’ levels of quality. The coloured gels Cartman had plastered over the lights Butters had brought helped - hot fuschia and brilliant blue gave everything a sort of faux-retro-synth vibe. 

Cartman got settled on one of the dining room chairs set in front of one of their homemade backdrops, pausing to fluff his huge blonde wig when Butters presented him with a mirror. He stared critically at himself before nodding, and Butters retreated again. 

It was slightly surreal to see Cartman all dragged up, but only because he did it so _well._ His waist was cinched in, pushing his natural body fat into places that with a little bit of additional padding became voluptuous. To be frank: Cartman had great tits. He knew it, too, unfailingly positioning himself so that every S-curve of his moulded body was visible as he had the song cued up again to resume lip-synching.

Cartman had insisted that a portion of the performance be shot with him sitting, for “chair-ography.” Kyle had rolled his eyes, but as Cartman flipped his head, sending his hair whipping like he was in a Whitesnake video, he suddenly got it. Hair falling around his face, Cartman seemed to be staring his way right through the camera as he moved cherry lips to match the lyrics. 

“Fire in my lungs, can't bite the devil on my tongue, you know,  
I don't need to be loved by _you._ ”

Behind the camera, Kyle shivered once.

They broke after running the same sequence a few times. Butters went to the kitchen to get them all something to drink, practically bouncing with joy. He had, after all, worked hard on this strange endeavour, and if Cartman were successful it would be in no small part due to Butters’ help. 

“Hey,” Kyle said, coming up beside Cartman, who really was very sweaty. “How’s it going?”

“My fucking balls are up inside my body, Kahl, this is a fucking nightmare,” he replied, fanning himself with a magazine. 

Kyle snorted. “It looks good though, dude. Seriously.” 

Cartman - just about the same height as Kyle with his heels on - flashed his teeth and fluttered his eyelashes. “Dixie Normous turning you on, Kahl?” he asked.

Kyle shook his head, smirking back. “Nope.” He leaned in. “But talk to me when you’re out of drag.” He pressed a kiss to Cartman’s temple, quick as a thought.

“Don’t fuck up my makeup, Daywalker!” Cartman bitched, but Kyle was almost positive that he saw a faint blush underneath the layers of spackle and foundation. 

Kyle pulled away, chuckling, when he heard his phone buzzing from the table where he’d left it. He walked over and saw Stan’s number, so he picked up his phone and hit the talk button. “Hey, dude,” he said as he watched Cartman take a coke from Butters. “We’re just about wrapped up here if y--”

“Kyle!” Stan’s voice cut through whatever else he had been about to say. Kyle felt his stomach drop out at the raw panic in Stan’s voice. “Dude you gotta help us we’re in fucking trouble!”

“Stan?! Where are you?!” 

“We-- OH SHIT KY--!”

The line went dead. Kyle looked up at Cartman and Butters, who were both looking back with wide eyes.

“Dude,” Kyle said helplessly.

Butters was very pale, knocking his knuckles together. Cartman’s eyes narrowed.

“Ping Pong’s,” he snarled. “Come on. We gotta go.”

\--

It was difficult to tell if Cartman was driving faster simply out of concern, or if it was because he couldn’t feel the accelerator properly through four inches of shoe. Either way, for once in his life Kyle really didn’t give a shit about how many traffic violations the other committed. While Cartman piloted his pickup through a red light, Kyle scrolled back through his phone. Stan had texted him earlier, he saw, but of course he’d missed it - he’d tossed his phone and his wallet on Cartman’s living room table so that he wouldn’t drop anything while squirming around to get the shots required by Cartman’s entirely too detailed storyboards. 

Guilt was currently threatening to eat him alive as he read the texts.

**SM: dude me and kenny going 2 ping pongs. got the ghost ritual. stopping 2 get holy water, c u soon**

**SM: dude where r u guys**

**SM: k we’re going in**

The last had been sent not too long before the panicked phonecall they had received. Kyle had of course tried to call back, but he had received a ‘the caller you called cannot be reached’ message. Kenny’s phone just rang endlessly. 

Kyle shoved his phone back in his pocket and gripped his hair with both hands. “Jesus fucking Christ, why didn’t they _wait?_ ” he moaned. “I TOLD him we would be done by nightfall… Jesus fuck, fucking morons.”

Cartman snorted. 

“Okay,” Kyle said, removing his hands from his hair - they hovered beside his head, apparently in case he felt the need to try and rip his curls out by the roots in frustration again. “Okay. They have the ghost book. And holy water. Obviously they didn’t work. So we can surmise that I was probably right, and an actual physical human being is behind this.”

“Like a mad scientist,” Cartman added.

“Cartman, it’s not a fucking mad scientist!”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do s--arrrghhh nevermind! Okay, okay. So. We’re gonna be okay. Unless they’re fucking dead already.”

“No way,” Cartman said. “It’s been like, five minutes. Unless the guy got in a REALLY lucky shot, the hippie is still alive.”

“What about Kenny, you asshole?!”

Cartman snorted again, but he somehow found it in the old pickup to go just a little bit faster. “Kyle, the bag I told you to get from the closet? Open it.”

Kyle hauled the duffel bag off the floor and onto his lap, unzipping it and gingerly looking inside. Sitting inside was a taser, a stun baton, and what he was pretty certain was an actual gun.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Eric! There’s no way you have a license for any of this shit!” 

“You wanna call Officer Fucking Friendly, Kyle? There’s mace in there, too. You can use that if you wanna be a pussy.”

Kyle scowled. “Fuck you, I just don’t think we should have a fucking gun!”

“Untwist your panties, Kahl, it’s just a fucking flare gun. I’m not allowed actual firearms.”

Kyle was pretty sure he was still correct in thinking Cartman wasn’t allowed _any_ of what he had, but he still found himself immeasurably relieved by the news. 

“Dibs on the baton,” Cartman said as he pulled into the parking lot of Ping Pong’s so fast that Kyle legitimately thought the truck might roll. They screeched to a halt and were piling out of the car as fast as they could manage. There was no sign of the police officers who had been previously guarding the pizzeria.

Kyle threw the duffel bag on the hood of the truck and yanked it open. He grabbed the mace and the taser, leaving Cartman to grab the baton and the flare gun. This latter he shoved into a hot pink fanny pack. Kyle was genuinely not sure when he’d put it on.

Cartman dug into the bag a little further and pulled out a huge, gaudy gold crucifix. He threw it around his neck, miraculously not getting it caught in his wig. “In case it IS demons,” he explained.

“What about me?”

Cartman rolled his eyes. “Everybody knows Jews are immune to possession.”

Kyle could only stare incredulously for a second, legitimately not sure how to process that statement. He decided to just let it go, mostly because time was short.

With no police presence, they were free to approach the front door. It had been locked up, of course, but apparently Kenny had simply used his employee keys; the door was open just a crack. Although it was daylight - a cloudy, grey sky hung above them, so bright it almost hurt the eye in spite of there being no direct sun - none of it seemed to penetrate the pizzeria.

“Ready?” Cartman asked.

Kyle nodded grimly, and together they pushed their way into the shadows of Ping Pong’s Pizzeria.

Dust motes sparkled dully in shafts of dishwater light cast through the filthy picture windows at the front of the restaurant. The further they walked into the building, the dimmer it got. The silence was nearly total, their footfalls muffled by the pissy carpet. Kyle gripped the taser with one sweaty hand, the mace in the ass pocket of his jeans. He wanted to call for Stan and Kenny, but he knew that if they hadn’t already been spotted by whoever had attacked their friends, calling out would be a sure way to alert them.

Baton extended and raised, Cartman nodded toward the theatre. Kyle nodded back, swallowing down any lingering fear, and stepped forward with Cartman. 

The theatre was dark - there were no windows, and therefore no pallid light to banish the deep shadows pooled everywhere. It also appeared to be empty, although as his eyes adjusted Kyle saw that it hadn’t been for long - there on one of the long picnic style tables lay a book, candles, a plastic bottle full of water, and a box of sidewalk chalk. The candles were lit, all save one which was knocked over. The sidewalk chalk had been used to draw a pentagram on the ground.

The two boys advanced together, clutching their respective weapons threateningly. Whoever might be lurking in the room was about to find out in short order that there was a reason that every year the population of South Park High had a betting pool on the odds of Broflovski and Cartman razing the entire town to the ground. No matter what other differences they had, they shared a violent heart.

“I don’t think--” Kyle whispered, and that’s when the stage lights went up.

 _Shit, we could have filmed here,_ Kyle thought as he threw a hand up to protect his eyes from the flashbulb pops of red and yellow and green. Beside him, he could vaguely sense Cartman doing the same, but his attention was immediately torn away by the realisation that there were two very familiar figures slumped over in the middle of the stage.

“Stan!” Kyle cried.

The speakers at each end of the stage crackled as a voice blared forth: “I heard it’s someone’s VERY SPECIAL DAY! And on special days, we have SPECIAL SONGS! One-two-three-four!”

The pre-recorded track was turned up so loudly it was distorted with fuzz. There was more noise coming from the wings as Filbert Fish spasmed in place, fins stuttering. Following behind him was the considerably bulkier and more mobile form of Ping Pong Possum himself. 

“Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!   
Happy Birthday to you! Have fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuun!  
Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!   
Happy Birthday to you! You’re the oooooooooooooone!”

Kyle jammed the taser in his hoodie and rushed forward, using both hands to vault up on the stage. Filbert whipped his tail toward him and Kyle dropped, skidding underneath it. It was close - the displaced air from the metal whickering above his head was enough to blow curls off of his forehead. His pants tore at the knee but that was a problem for later - Kyle stumbled forward and rolled, fetching up against Stan and Kenny. He grabbed Kenny’s shoulders and shook him. Kenny’s head lolled on his spindly neck, his eyelids fluttering blindly. Tacky blood coated one side of his face. 

“Oh, fuck,” Kyle panted. There was a mechanical squalling behind him, and he could feel the boards of the stage shaking as something thudded toward him. He turned, and saw Ping Pong bearing down on him. 

_This is it,_ Kyle thought stupidly. In that moment he could see everything: the stains on the animatronic’s balding fur, the burst stitching along the seam of its shoulder, and the dull glimmer of the steel that made up its teeth. Every detail, lovingly rendered by his terrified eye as the creature strode forward like old death. 

Ping Pong’s mouth gaped.

There was a deafening crack and then suddenly Ping Pong’s head was full of flames. 

“Kyle! Get them off the fucking stage!” 

Cartman. Of course. He tossed the flare gun aside and ran to the side of the stage, reaching up. Kyle grabbed Kenny under the arms and hauled him as fast as he could, dragging him to the edge and all but rolling him off of it into Cartman’s arms. “Oh, you stupid shit,” Cartman said, sounding winded as he carried Kenny a few steps away and set him down.

Kyle spun around on his hands and knees and crawled as fast as he could back to Stan. “Dude,” Kyle panted, “dude you gotta wake up! Stan, come on!”

There was a hideous shrieking noise as Filbert pulled himself out of his jittery fit and half flopped, half lurched toward them. He grinned his lunatic grin with human teeth and Kyle turned, putting both of his feet against Stan’s side and pushing him as hard as he could. Stan rolled bonelessly, and Kyle yanked his legs back just as Filbert’s tail slammed down, punching into the stage floor. 

The robotic fish shivered and jerked, trying to pull its tail free. There was another heavy thud and all of a sudden Cartman was there, glossy lips pulled back in a snarl. He launched the stun baton like a harpoon, jamming it into a gap between Filbert’s left fin and his body. He jammed the button that released the electric current, and suddenly there were sparks everywhere and a horrible burning smell. Cartman shouted and was thrown back, and Kyle moved to grab Stan and roll with him, trying to get the dark haired boy out of harm's way. The two of them nearly plummeted off the stage together.

‘Kyle?” Stan asked groggily. 

“Stan, get to Kenny!” Kyle shouted, staggering to his feet. Filbert was smoking and suddenly the fire alarms were shrieking. Kyle hurried across the stage. “Eric?!”

Cartman was sprawled close to the curtains at the rear of the stage. His wig obscured his face, and Kyle could not at a distance tell if he was breathing. Kyle dropped to his knees beside him (he was really doing no favours to his poor kneecaps today) and grabbed Cartman's shoulders, pulling him into a half sitting position. “Eric?” he asked again, shaking him lightly. Blonde hair stuck to Cartman’s cheeks and lips, and after getting one arm around his back Kyle used his other hand to brush the synthetic strands away. When Cartman’s eyelids twitched Kyle felt his entire chest unlock with relief.

“Don’t scare me like that, dumbass,” he whispered. Cartman’s eyes opened, fixed on Kyle, and then widened as he was suddenly pulled right out of his arms. 

“No!” Kyle yelled. His head jerked around, and Ping Pong was there. The animatronic had its paws clamped around Cartman’s ankles, and had pulled him across the stage toward him that way. Most of the fur had burnt off of its face, exposing the steel skeleton beneath. Its maw yawned open as it yanked Cartman closer, intending to sink its teeth deep into the soft flesh of Cartman’s belly. Kyle coiled his legs under him and then launched himself forward. He landed half on Cartman,, pulling himself to cover him even as he rolled onto his back. His hands fumbled for his hoodie pocket, and for an eternal second he thought he’d lost it, that it really was it this time and he was about to wind up impaled on rusty teeth older than himself.

But then his long fingers closed around the taser and yanked it free.

“Nobody touches my shit!” he screamed, pointing the taser and depressing the button. The probes shot out and punched into what fur was left on the animatronic’s head. Electricity surged across the taser’s wires, and the robot jittered and twitched. Then it _shrieked_ , so high that it sounded more like a child caught in some hideous machinery than anything else. 

Ping Pong fell backwards, the acrid stink of burnt wires and metal on metal hot in the air. It did not move.

“Kyle?”

Kyle half turned, heart leaping. “Cartman!”

“Kyle, could you maybe move your bony fucking elbows off of my tits? They hurt like hell.”

Kyle moved so he was no longer laying on him, then pulled Cartman up into a sitting position before throwing his arms around his neck and kissing him. Cartman smelled of sweat and tasted of lip gloss, and Kyle didn’t think he’d ever been so relieved in all of his life. “Don’t you EVER do that to me again!” he hissed.

“Alright, Jesus, don’t get all pissy about it,” Cartman complained. He adjusted his wig, pushing hair out of his face.

“Guys?” It was Stan, peering over the edge of the stage. “You okay?”

“Yeah, Stan, we’re okay,” Kyle said, standing and helping Cartman to his feet. 

Cartman wobbled, finding his balance in his heels. “Saved the motherfucking day!” he cried, raising a fist to the sky.

“Uhm, not yet,” Stan said, and gestured at the half-set up séance situation on the table. “See, it’s not the robots…”

Kenny staggered over to the stage, holding his injured head. “It’s _him,_ ” he said, and pointed at the rear of the stage.

There, in the shadows of the curtains, was a little boy. He was very pale, and Kyle realised two things simultaneously: the boy’s left arm was missing, and he could mostly see _through_ him. The little boy stared at them listlessly, a white knob of bone peeking out from the tattered cloth and flesh of his shoulder.

“Kyle,” Cartman whispered, “gimme your mace.”

“You can’t mace a ghost, Cartman,” Kyle whispered back.

“You don’t know that.”

“Shut up, you guys,” Stan said. “It’s--”

“The kid from 1987,” Kyle interrupted. “Yeah.”

“He’s been stuck here this entire time,” Stan explained. “Before you guys got here, we followed the instructions in the goth kids’ book, and he appeared. He told us he just wanted kids to play with.”

Kyle blinked and looked at the ghost, who was just standing there, looking very small and very tired. “So he killed the other kids,” Kyle said softly.

“And put them in the animatronics, yeah. To play.”

It was all so pathetically heartbreaking. Kyle shook his head. “So why…?”

“He didn’t want us to take them away,” Kenny said. He hauled himself back up onto the stage. “He doesn’t know how to leave here, and he’s scared that we’ll send him away somewhere alone.”

“So… what do we do now?” Kyle asked, bewildered. 

“We gotta show him the way,” Kenny said before he sighed deeply. He turned to look at Cartman. “Dude,” he said.

Cartman frowned, then shrugged. “I hate you, Kinny,” he said, then wrapped his arms tightly around Kyle’s waist. Too tightly.

“Dude, what--?” Kyle started. 

Kenny reached into his jacket and pulled out a pocketknife. He flipped it open, and before Kyle could do more than jerk in Cartman’ arms, Kenny had plunged it into the side of his own throat. 

“Oh my god!” Stan screamed, scrambling to get up on the stage. Kyle struggled in Cartman’s arms as Kenny collapsed. 

“Let me go! You bastard!” He fought like a wildcat, and Cartman let go of him abruptly. 

“It’s too late,” he said even as Stan and Kyle rushed to Kenny’s side, Stan weeping and taking off his jacket to hold against Kenny’s bloody neck. Kyle was yelling, fumbling for his cellphone to call 911.

Cartman sighed and shook his head. He looked to the rear of the stage. The little ghost was gone.

\--

Frank Perv was released from police custody after an anonymous tipster informed the Concerned Citizens of South Park that the Satanic Reptilian Illuminati was not responsible for the child disappearances, but rather that sentient 5G towers had possessed the animatronics at the pizzeria.

Ping Pong’s Pizza Emporium was torn down at Randy Marsh’s insistence.

The lot still smelled like piss.

\--

“I seriously cannot believe what I’m seeing,” Stan deadpanned. Beside him, Wendy sniggered.

“Oh, I dunno,” she said. “I actually don’t think this is much different than usual.”

“Just spittier,” Kenny added.

“A lot spittier,” Butters agreed.

Maybe five feet away, Kyle and Cartman had gone from a screaming argument about what ought to be packed in a carry-on bag to fiercely making out on the hood of Kyle’s mom’s sedan. Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a second.

“Cartman?” he tried, raising his voice. “You really don’t wanna be late. I have a feeling TSA is one hundred percent going to rifle through your bags, dude.”

“They might assume the bras are just for everyday use,” Kenny said, grinning.

“‘Ey!” Cartman shouted, pulling his face away from Kyle’s. 

Underneath him, Kyle added, “He’s not that fat!”

Stan rolled his eyes and Wendy snickered again. “Guys,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah, calm down,” Cartman muttered, finally standing properly. Kyle gracelessly slithered off the hood of the car. 

He looked down at Cartman, frowning. “I hate this,” he said quietly.

“It’s only like, five weeks max for filming, Daywalker.”

“I know that. I still hate it.”

Cartman grinned. “When I get back I’ll dick you down real good,” he promised. 

Kyle smacked him in the shoulder. “You fucking degenerate,” he said, trying not to smile.

Cartman’s grin widened. “You love it. I guess I’ll miss texting you and shit.”

“Yeah, I guess I will, too.”

Cartman stretched up and kissed Kyle on the nose. “You better wear the merch I had made when this airs,” he said. Kyle snorted; Cartman had gotten Butters to design Dixie Normous t-shirts. Of course. 

“Uh huh. Okay, you better go, dude. Oh, wait, one last thing…” Kyle went into his backpack and pulled out his ushanka. He handed it to Cartman. “Here.” He sounded normal enough, but his throat felt too tight. 

“Gross,” Cartman said as he took it. “Got your fucking nasty ass ginger scalp flakes in it.”

Kyle leaned down and kissed him on the lips. “Get the fuck outta here,” he said. “Come back in five weeks a winner, dumbass.”

Cartman jammed the ushanka into his (poorly packed) carry-on. “Like there’s any doubt.” He turned to the others. “Wish me luck, assholes!”

Kenny laughed and flipped him off while cheering. Butters burst into tears. Wendy and Stan waved and shouted their goodbyes as Cartman hauled his luggage away and into the airport. Kyle waved until the automatic doors cut off his view, and then Stan was there to put an arm around his shoulders. 

“He’ll be back,” Stan assured him softly.

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. “I know. We’re a pair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story started as a very stupid little idea and quickly mutated into whatever THIS was. If you've plodded your way through it, I want to take the time to thank you most sincerely. 
> 
> (...and Dixie Normous definitely wore that ushanka in her interview segments.)

**Author's Note:**

> Tags and warnings likely to change a bit as this goes on. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
